


keep on keeping on

by waveydnp



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Sexual Content, So much kissing, Trauma Recovery, chosen family, lots of talking, vampire stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 74,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27532759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveydnp/pseuds/waveydnp
Summary: simon and baz are back from america. now the healing can start.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 266
Kudos: 328





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the self indulgent physical and emotional intimacy-focused post wayward son fic of my dreams. if i made any mistakes, no i didn’t. canon is but a suggestion. simon doesn’t have wings because i didn’t feel like dealing with that. hope you enjoy!

**Simon**

America did something to me. As much as it was painful and terrifying and nearly wrenched my heart right out of my bloody chest, it did something to me that I needed.

It woke me up. It injected adrenaline straight into my veins, reminded me what it really feels like to be alive. I didn’t need magic for that. Just my friends. And Baz.

He used magic to heal me up as best he could. Penny too. I may not have any lasting physical scars, but I can feel the way I’ve been changed by the experience of nearly dying and then coming back to life.

And the way Baz looked when he thought I really was dead. The way he sounded; utterly broken. The way he told me afterwards that he couldn’t be happy without me. I never really believed it before. I’m not exactly a catch, am I? I’m impulsive and thick and bad with words. I eat too much and I have a tendency to use my fists to solve my problems. I’m a magician without a lick of magic to speak of.

I’d convinced myself that Baz would be better off without me, that I was holding him back, tying him down. I even thought _I_ might be happier without _him_. That my guilt at being dead weight chained to his ankle would lift if I could just be brave enough to let him go.

I don’t really think that’s true anymore. America knocked me ‘round the head to be sure, but instead of leaving me concussed, it seems to have knocked the sense back in. Baz and I were cast together. The Crucible saw what we at eleven were too young to see: we belong by each other’s side. We’re meant to look after one another. Just because we’re not at Watford anymore doesn’t make that any less true.

He came home with me when we got back to London. They all did, in fact, Agatha and Shepard and Baz crammed into mine and Penny’s little flat. We were all a little (a lot) worse for wear. He slept in my room that first night, and the next seven nights to follow. We pretended it was by necessity, but he could have gone back to Fiona’s flat once we found out that the ‘big emergency’ that called us back to England was a false alarm. I wanted him to stay, and he clearly wanted to stay too.

Agatha has since gone back to her parents’ house, which is fine by me. I’m glad she’s safe, but I don’t feel the same kind of compulsion that Penny does to keep her in my life. I think she’s serious about wanting to put the world of mages in her rear view, and I’m going to respect it. When I’m honest with myself, I realize we never really got on anyway. I wanted her because I thought I should. It wasn’t until I kissed Baz that I truly realized the difference.

Shepard has gone back to America, but I still hear about him. A lot. Like, a fucking _lot_. I reckon Penny has a proper crush. Sometimes I swear to Crowley they stay up all sodding night talking on Zoom. The walls in this flat are thin and her voice carries. Sometimes Baz spells my bedroom soundproof just so we don’t have to listen to them when we’re trying to fall asleep.

I cleared a couple drawers in my dresser for Baz. And most of the closet. He's got more clothes than me anyway, and I wanted him to feel at home in my space in a way I never allowed him to before. He’s not technically living here, but he never really sleeps anywhere else anymore.

**Baz**

I fucking loathed pretty much everything America had to offer me. The relentless sun, the endless fields of corn, the lawless magic, the manipulative vampires. The cheesecake was good, but my god, the sandwiches. Those were a crime of nature. And the tea was even worse.

I hated America. I hope I never have to go back.

But I thank the gods both Normal and otherwise that Bunce’s stupid plot brought us out there. I don’t think Snow and I could’ve carried on as we were, his body practically fused to the sofa, a bottle of cider in his hand as ubiquitous as the haunted look in his eyes. He could barely bring himself to look at me back then. And now…

Now I swear he never _stops_.

And it’s not just because I’m around more. He can’t keep his eyes off me. I catch him staring constantly: when I’m doing the washing up, when I’m folding his laundry, when I’m hoovering crisp crumbs out of his carpet. (He really is one of the most slovenly human beings I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.)

He even does it when I’m sleeping. Or rather, when he thinks I’m sleeping. He’s really not very good at telling the difference.

I don’t know what it means exactly, but I think it’s good. He asks me to stay over almost every night, and on the nights he forgets to ask, I’ll stretch my arms above my head and fake a yawn and tell him it’s late, I should get going. He never lets me. Never. I can’t remember the last time I slept in a bed that wasn’t his.

That alone would be progress enough to make me weep.

But he’s giving me more. He’s looking at me, in some ways like he’s seeing something he didn’t before.

He touches me sometimes. Nothing cheeky. A hand pressed lightly to my lower back in the morning when he’s reaching around me to grab a mug from the cupboard, an arm around my shoulders when we’re sat next to each other on the sofa watching daft reality television. Sometimes, at night, in bed and under cover of darkness, he’ll reach for me under the duvet. Hold my hand.

Sometimes, when he’s asleep and I’ve just come in from hunting and I’m cold and I can’t resist the beckoning warmth of his tawny skin, I’ll curl myself around his back and fall asleep. I’m not going to push him, I’m never going to push him. But things are better. He’s not pushing me away anymore.

**Simon**

I wake to the sound of Baz’s feet on my bedroom floor. Usually I sleep through him getting ready for class, but today I don’t. I open my eyes and he’s facing away from me, standing at the foot of my bed.

Naked. Like, fully starkers.

I lie completely, perfectly still. I don’t want him to notice I’m awake.

I don’t want him to hurry to get dressed.

This is just proof of how terrible a boyfriend I really am. I’ve never seen him naked. Until now.

I won’t pretend I haven’t thought about it before, because that would definitely be a lie, and I don’t like to make a habit of lying. I’ve thought about what he might look like under all his posh well fitted clothes. I think I even thought about it when it was our school uniform that was covering up his body. Especially when he was out on the pitch chasing down a football, all fast and graceful and powerful. The peeks of thigh I’d get when his shorts would ride up…

Sometimes I think I must really be as stupid as Baz used to tell me I was. I thought about him constantly back then, and only half of the time because I was pissed off or worrying about what he was plotting. The other half I was daydreaming about what he looked like under his kit or what his hair would feel like tangled in my fingers. Why did it take me so long to figure out that I wanted to kiss him more than I wanted to kill him?

I try not to let myself dwell too much on all the time we wasted at each other’s throats. It breaks my heart to think of how lonely we both were. We slept three feet apart for seven years, never once speaking a kind word to each other.

He bends down and the view I get is almost too much for me. When he stands up again he’s pulling on a pair of tight black pants, and I find myself disappointed.

So that’s… something. I’ve seen Basilton Pitch’s bum now - and I liked it. I’d quite like to see it again. This time maybe with his consent.

And suddenly I feel guilty. I shouldn’t be looking at him when he doesn’t know.

I prop myself up onto my elbows and clear my throat, and he whirls around, clutching a silky looking purple shirt to his chest. “Snow,” he says, and he almost, _almost_ sounds undignified.

“Morning.”

“I was… getting dressed. I have class.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were asleep.” He looks sheepish. I don’t know if I’ve ever really seen him look sheepish.

I love him so bloody much.

“I was,” I say.

“Oh.” The tension melts visibly from his shoulders. “Okay.”

“I did see your arse, though.”

If it’s possible, he seems to go paler. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s… it’s fine.” I reach up to tear my fingers through my semi matted curls. They’re getting long again, which means they tangle themselves into knots while I’m sleeping. “It’s— well. It’s…”

He lifts an eyebrow at me.

“It’s nice,” I finally spit out.

“What is?”

“Your arse.”

He looks like he’s got no idea what to do with that, like he’s not sure whether to smile or argue or simply run away.

“I didn’t mean to peep on you or anything,” I say. “I just—”

“Please stop talking. Please. I beg you.”

“Fine. Sorry.”

“I’ll get dressed in the bathroom from now on.”

I’m starting to regret my almost pathological compulsion for honesty. “Fine.” I flop back down onto the pillow and close my eyes. It’s too early to be awake anyway. We’re not at Watford anymore. There’s no dining hall, no sour cherry scones, no one to cook me bottomless plates of food. No reason not to have a lie in.

A couple minutes later, there’s a rush of cedar and something cold on my forehead. I open my eyes in time to see Baz pulling away from the kiss he’s just placed there.

I may not have magic anymore, but my reflexes are still sharp. I grab the back of his neck and pull him in, pressing my mouth against his. He tastes like toothpaste and I certainly do not, but I don’t think he cares. He makes a noise that starts out surprised and turns warm as I slide my fingers up into his hair. I wonder if I’ll ever stop being surprised at how much I love touching his hair. And kissing him.

Maybe that just means I need to do it more. Currently, I’m having a hard time remembering why exactly we aren’t attached at the mouth at all times.

Baz is a very good kisser. I don’t have a lot to compare it to, but kissing Agatha was never anything like this. And Baz is good at pretty much everything.

**Baz**

I’ve got half a stiffy as I close the door of Snow and Bunce’s flat behind me. I can still taste him.

I had to physically drag myself away. Actually, I’m kind of regretting that now. How far would he have let things go if I hadn’t gently insisted I needed to catch the train to uni? Would he have pulled me back into bed with him? Told me more about how nice my arse is? Asked to see it again?

I can’t keep thinking about it. It won’t do to have a visible erection on the tube.

And then he texts me.

— _don’t get changed in the bathroom from now on plz_

I’ll admit, for a moment or two I entertain the idea that this isn’t real, that I’m dreaming or spelled stupid or maybe even dead. But I’m not. It’s real. Snow fancies me. That’s a fact, one he’s making more clear to me by the day.

My response is not the cheeky one I would send if I was even half as brave as Simon bloody Snow.

— _I was hoping the first time you saw me naked, it would be because you actually wanted to. I’m sorry I subjected you to that, even if it wasn’t too much of an ordeal._

_—you twat i’ve wanted to see you naked for ages_

My heart needs a solid five minutes to handle that admission, and the text I send back is as inarticulate as I think I’ve ever been in my whole miserable life.

— _Oh?_

_—you’re my boyfriend_

I shouldn’t have left him. Why the fuck did I leave him? I could be with him right now if I wasn’t such a bloody slave to expectation.

— _I am._

_—don’t you ever think about what i look like naked?_

I almost miss my fucking stop.

I don’t answer him until I’m above ground again and the university is in sight.

— _Of course I do, Snow. I’ve been thinking about that since I was fifteen years old._

I’ve never been so explicit about exactly how long I pined for him. And I probably shouldn’t have done now, either. But he seems to be in the mood for blunt honesty. I can’t resist. Maybe because the back of my neck is still warm from where his hand was clinging to it thirty minutes ago.

— _blimey_

_—Sorry. Too much honesty. I’m all out of sorts because my boyfriend nearly snogged the life out of me this morning._

I don’t get another text before I find a seat in the lecture hall, so I pocket my phone and try not to worry that I’ve made him uncomfortable. He’s been so good to me lately. I don’t want him to think I’m pushing.

I’ve endured fifteen minutes of a very boring class when I feel a buzz in my pocket.

— _it’s not too much honesty. i reckon we could use more of that between us don’t you??_

My academic responsibilities are immediately forgotten. I open up a textbook and prop it on the desk, hiding my phone behind it. I’d sooner fail out of this class, hell, out of this whole bloody program than pass up the opportunity to engage with Snow when he’s talking so much sense. When he’s taking so much interest in our relationship.

— _I think honesty is good, yes._

_—i think i wanted you when i was fifteen too. that was fifth year, yeah? the year i followed you around constantly? and caught you in the catacombs?_

_—Yes,_ I reply. _It was a hellish time for me. I didn’t enjoy having to admit to myself that I was gone for the boy I’d been conditioned by my family to hate. And you were always there. I couldn’t escape my feelings._

_—i guess that explains why you were extra nasty_

_—Tell me about you thinking you wanted me too. That sounds nicer._

_—i just didn’t feel right unless i knew where you were and what you were doing. i felt like there was a hole in me when you’d disappear at night. for years i thought it was because i was afraid of your plots. but i think that was a rationalization_

— _I should have just kissed you that time you pinned me against the bathroom door, remember? I can’t even remember now what you were so tilted about, but I do remember how badly I wanted to kiss that angry mouth of yours._

_—i probably would’ve broken your nose. again_

I laugh, then quickly move to stifle it with a fake cough. The girl next to me gives me a dirty look, and I think momentarily about spelling her socks wet or whatever she’s got in her travel mug cold. Something harmless that will only slightly inconvenience her day. Doesn’t she know that Simon Snow is being emotionally vulnerable with me? Doesn’t she understand how earth shattering this is for me?

Then he texts me again.

— _it really upsets me to think about all the time we wasted thinking we had to hate each other_

 _—Then don’t think about it,_ I tell him _. Tell me more about how much you want to see me naked._

I chew my lip as I wait for him to respond.

— _it scares me a lot. but i do_

_—You don’t have to be scared, Simon. It’s just me. It’s just what I am underneath my clothes. You don’t have to do anything. If you want to just look, that’s alright._

_—you called me simon :)_

_—No I didn’t._

_—hey baz remember how we agreed honesty would be a good thing for us?_

_—I remember, Snow. It was only a few minutes ago._

_—well HONESTLY i like it when you call me simon. i would like it if you did it all the time, not just when you accidentally let your guard down_

I look up from my phone, my insides fluttering with nerves and all kinds of emotions I’m far too repressed to make sense of. Snow - Simon - seems to have woken up a different person today, one willing to actually put words to what’s going on inside his head. I’m trying not to think that him seeing my bare ass was all it took, but it’s hard not to feel like that had something to do with. Like him seeing me exposed made him feel safer letting his own guard down.

— _Alright,_ I type. _Thank you for your honesty, Simon._

_—what’s something you want from me?_

I laugh again. The girl next to me huffs, but I don’t care.

_—That is a very loaded question, Snow._

_—simon_

_—Simon Snow._

_—what do you want from me tyrannus??_

_—Is that a trick question? Is this a test?_

_—no. why? you want something pervy?_

I shove my phone in my pocket, then my books into my backpack. I can’t keep having this conversation in class.

So I leave. Which is something I’ve never done before. Simon Snow may not be trying to kill me anymore, but he’s still going to be the death of me.

**Simon**

I knock my teeth against the rim of my mug, breathing in the scent of tea as I wait for Baz to respond. I probably shouldn’t have said what I said. It’s not like I don’t know why he’s hedging.

I’ve got my knees pulled up to my chest, my toes tucked under the sofa cushion. It’s started to rain outside and the window is open. I listen to the peaceful pitter patter sound of water on the London streets below. I’d be well relaxed if today was a normal day.

I mean, it is a normal day. Mostly. Penny and Baz are both at uni and I’m home alone in my pyjamas, taking up space and being useless. Drinking too much tea and wishing I knew how to cook anything halfway decent. I’ve already eaten half a box of Shreddies, but my stomach still growls with hunger. I could probably do up some eggs and toast. But right now all I really care about is Baz.

I can’t get the image of him long and white and soft out of my head. When I close my eyes I can see him like he’s still right in front of me. I’ve known I’m attracted to Baz for quite a while now. It’s not like it’s a surprise. But this still feels like a revelation. Part two of the most drawn out sexuality crisis of all time.

I should have known he’d have a nice bum. He still plays football, a recreational league that meets a few times a week in the evening for practice and games every Sunday. And he’s fucking Baz Pitch, for Merlin’s sake. Even when I hated him with my every fibre I couldn’t deny that he was fit as hell.

He still hasn’t responded to my stupid implication that he’s a pervert, and I suppose I can’t blame him. It wasn’t a very nice thing to say. I can be a real wanker sometimes.

— _sorry,_ I text _. plz forget i said that_

_—No need to apologize. I was making a list of all the pervy things I want from you. I should be able to submit it to you next Tuesday if I clear my schedule._

My relief is so profound that I actually laugh. I neck the rest of my tea and put the mug on the coffee table.

— _i like talking to you like this,_ I tell him. _sometimes it’s easier to type than it is to speak._

_—I understand that. You can always text me if you have something to say. Even if we’re sat right next to each other._

_—And I like talking to you like this too, Simon. That’s what I want from you. You. Your time and attention and affection. I don’t need anything pervy._

I read his text over and over. I want to remember it forever. I want to tattoo the words to my brain. I love him so much. I don’t deserve him, but it doesn’t matter. He wants me anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks as ever to mandy for everything


	2. Chapter 2

**Baz**

I wake with a jolt, my whole body cold and clammy with sweat. My face is wet with tears that must have fallen over the course of the dream. I fumble on the floor beside Simon’s bed for my wand, then spell his bedside lamp on. I shouldn’t, it might wake him, but I can’t be in the dark right now.

“Baz?”

Turns out, he’s already awake, already sat up next to me with a look of concern on his face. And a hand on my shoulder.

“What?” I croak, swiping quickly at my eyes.

“You were shouting.”

“Was I?” I drop my wand on the floor, but leave the lamp on. “Sorry, Snow. Go back to sleep.”

“You had a nightmare.” His hand slides from my shoulder to the back of my neck, squeezing, the warmth of his touch spreading down my spine and making me shudder.

I don’t know what to say. I’m shaky and frightened and completely out of sorts.

“Baz,” Snow murmurs softly.

And I crumble.

He pulls me into his arms and I let my face rest in the crook of his neck. I let him warm me, let him rub his hand up and down my arm. I feel pathetic, but I never want him to let me go.

In the past I would have forced myself to buck up. I would’ve shielded him from my pain for fear of making his worse. But we’re in a new era now, the post America era, the era of honesty. And the honest truth is that sometimes I still dream about spending six weeks in the dark. I’m still haunted by the taste of stale blood and the feeling of slow starvation. I still get phantom hip pain, still have to look over my shoulder every once in a while to check there isn’t someone there waiting to beat me over the head with a club.

“Talk to me,” Simon says, pushing my hair off my face and kissing my forehead.

“Just a bad dream,” I say, though my voice betrays me and my desperation to rid my mind of the desolation these memories inspire.

“I know.” He rubs his fingers against my scalp. It feels incredible, and a little bit of the tension in my shoulders eases. “I’ve heard you have a thousand nightmares over the years. You’ve never once told me about them.”

“You’ve never asked,” I whisper.

“I’m asking now. If you want to tell.”

I shake my head, but it doesn’t mean no. I grab a fistful of his shirt as if I can pull him closer. I can’t. I’m already plastered to him, he’s already holding me. “The coffin,” I say.

Simon nods. “Makes me sick to think about. I searched for you every night. I nearly mowed The Wood down. I didn’t sleep.”

“I wish you’d found me,” I say weakly. “But it’s still because of you that I survived.”

He frowns. “I didn’t do a bloody thing. I just wandered around campus wondering where the fuck you’d gone.”

I shake my head again. “The memory of you. I held onto it when things started to feel too hopeless.”

Simon drops the hand he’d been rubbing my arm with and whacks the bed beside him.

**Simon**

I know it doesn’t help anything for me to get angry. It’s not what he needs. But I’ve never been great at controlling my temper, and the idea of him locked up in the dark for a month and a half with no food and no toilet and no one coming to save him, nothing to cling to but the memory of a stupid boy who treated him like a villain - it really does make me feel ill. It makes my skin hot.

“Sometimes I’m really glad it was me who killed the Mage,” I whisper.

“Simon.”

“He was a bad person.”

Baz’s mouth is closed in a tight flat line. I wrap my arm around him again and crush him to my chest as tightly as I can. “I’ve got you now,” I tell him, mouthing against the side of his face. “And I’m never letting go, yeah? You’re safe now.”

He turns his head and catches my lips with his, and it doesn’t feel like suffocating. I don’t feel trapped. I kiss back, tasting his tongue, feeling his teeth - his fangs - graze my lip.

He pulls back with a jerk, his hand flying to his mouth. “Fuck,” he mutters, trying to pull out of my grip.

I don’t let him. “It’s fine, Baz.”

“No it bloody isn’t.”

“It _is_.” I pull his hand away from his face and hold it in my lap.

He looks so ashamed. I can’t bear it.

“Are you thirsty?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I’m all fucked up. It’s harder to control when I’m not focused. You just…” He trails off.

“What?” I prompt, as gently as I can.

“You smell so good.” He says it like he’s admitting to murder. “I’m sorry.”

“You haven’t done anything.”

“But I want to,” he whispers. “My body wants me to.”

“My body wants a lot of things I don’t let it have,” I tell him. “That’s called being human, Baz.”

“I’m not human, Snow. I’m a monster.”

I decide without much thought to reach forward and yank his pyjama shirt open. The buttons go flying, but he doesn’t protest, even though it’s a nice silk shirt that probably cost more than a month’s rent on this flat. I place my hand flat against his chest, close my eyes and wait.

He’s not human in the same way I am. But he’s not a monster. And he’s not dead. The beat of his heart is slow, but it’s there.

I drop my hand and replace it with his. It’s dramatic. Melodramatic, even. But I think it works. He closes his eyes and leaves his hand pressed there.

“You’re not a monster,” I say. “You’re a person. My favourite person.”

“I’ll never hurt you,” he says. “I would never bite you. Ever.”

“I know, Baz. I trust you.” I wait a long moment before I speak again. As much as I hate thinking about Lamb and everything that happened after he came into our lives, he was a valuable source of information for Baz. Part of me wishes I’d let them spend more time together before I fucked things up by being a jealous dickhead.

But they did spend _some_ time together. And he did tell Baz one thing that I haven’t been able to forget.

“You could, though. Maybe. Some day. If you wanted to.”

His eyes fly open, his hand dropping from his chest. “No.”

“Lamb said you can’t turn someone just from biting them.”

“You think I trust anything that traitor said?”

I shrug. “It was me he hated, not you. He liked you. Why would he lie?”

“I don’t know why bad people do what they do, Simon. I’d rather die for real than hurt you. Ever.”

“He said it would feel good,” I say quietly. “If you did it right.”

He looks disgusted.

I’m fucking this up. I am absolutely the most terrible boyfriend who’s ever boyfriended. For the life of me, I can’t remember what made me think that suggesting he drink from me was a good idea. I’m supposed to be comforting him and instead I’m just driving him further into the belief that he’s something dark and monstrous.

**Baz**

My gums are absolutely aching. I can feel the tips of my fangs digging into my bottom lip.

I lied when I told him I wasn’t thirsty. I am, but not for rodents or birds. It’s not indiscriminate blood I want— it’s his.

And that makes me hate myself. Makes me hate what I am.

But Simon… He’s looking at me like…

“Do you _want_ me to bite you?”

He shrugs. “I just want you to feel okay.”

“Hurting you wouldn’t make me feel okay.”

He runs his hand up through his nest of tangled curls. “I just… I hate the way you see yourself. I wish I could make you understand that it’s not how I see you at all.”

I cock an eyebrow. Seven years of telling anyone who would listen that I was an overgrown leech would beg to differ.

But that’s not fair. We both had perceptions of each other that were twisted, manipulated by forces outside our control. We’re past that now. We’ve forgiven each other for all that.

“I don’t want to bite you,” I say firmly.

“Okay.”

“But I hear you saying I’m not a monster. And I appreciate it.”

“But do you _believe_ it?”

His eyes don’t look blue in the dull lamplight. They look grey, like mine. His face is a constellation of freckles and moles and I want to kiss every single one.

“I believe that you believe it,” I say. “And that helps.”

He chews his lip. I can smell the blood there rising to the surface, ready to spill out if he breaks the skin. My mouth is watering.

“You’re so pale all the time,” he says, looking down at his lap. “And you have to hunt in the dark for something that doesn’t even taste good to you.”

“It tastes fine,” I argue. It’s not a lie. It’s perfectly fine, especially since I have nothing to compare it to.

He shakes his head. “You’ve made so  
many sacrifices for me. You’d do anything for me.”

It’s not a question, but I confirm it anyway. “Of course.”

“I want to return the favour.” He looks up at me. “I don’t want to be a terrible boyfriend anymore.”

I’m not entirely sure my heart hasn’t cracked my ribs open and leapt right out of my body. “Simon. You gave up magic to save me. Me and everyone else. You’ve sacrificed more than I can fucking _fathom_. You’re not a terrible anything.”

“You really don’t want to bite me?” he asks. “Be honest.”

I breathe in deeply, then blow the air out in a rush. Honesty means something different to us lately. It’s a promise to be truthful even when the truth is hard.

“Part of me wants to,” I admit. “But there are too many risks.”

He nods slowly. “Well, you can tell me if you change your mind.”

I won’t. I can’t. “Thank you, Snow.”

“Simon.”

“Simon,” I echo, taking his hand and squeezing it. “Thank you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Simon**

It’s raining again. I can hear it before I even open my eyes. The traffic outside makes a specific kind of noise when it rains, the sound of tires on wet pavement. It’s kind of nice, actually. Strangely peaceful. I loved America’s sun, but grey days like this where the clouds keep up a steady drizzle— these days feel like home.

I used to think Watford was the only place that would ever feel like mine. I’m glad I was wrong about that. I do feel at home here now, in this flat, in London. But it took a while. It took leaving and coming back. It took inviting Baz to share my space again.

Maybe that’s the secret. Things just don’t feel safe if I can’t listen to Baz breathing as he sleeps.

I reach out for him, but the space in my bed that he usually occupies is empty. It’s not that strange; there are a million places he could be. In the loo, showering, hunting, sat at the breakfast bar doing early morning homework. Hell, he could be doing my laundry. He says he finds cleaning relaxing. I think he just hates clutter. I guess it could be both.

I’m about to roll over and go back to sleep when a certain smell hits me. It’s nice, warm and comforting and slightly sweet, like baking bread.

No, not bread. It smells nostalgic, like something I still dream about sometimes, something I haven’t had since Watford.

I practically throw the covers off me, grabbing a hoodie that’s laid out at the end of bed and pulling it on. It’s one of Baz’s football hoodies, but I don’t think he’ll mind me wearing it. It’s not like he ever does. He’s far too posh.

When I open my bedroom door, the smell wafts over me like a physical entity, like a warm hug. I’m not entirely convinced this isn’t actually a dream, because it’s exactly the smell of a fresh baked Watford sour cherry scone. Exactly. It’s making my mouth water.

The sight I’m greeted with upon entering my flat’s tiny kitchen does nothing to convince me that I’m not just experiencing the most vivid unconscious fantasy of all time: Baz is stood at the stove wearing fitted black sweatpants, oven gloves… and nothing else. He’s facing away from me, the long pale curve of his back completely bare. I can see in perfect detail the bumps of his spine and the muscle definition in his shoulders. It’s almost enough to distract me from the smell of my very favorite food.

Almost.

“Baz?”

He turns around, and I’m surprised to see that he looks almost embarrassed. His hair is falling in loose waves around his face and over his shoulders. I think it’s the longest it’s ever been.

He’s a dream, whether I’m sleeping or not.

“Morning, Snow,” he says. His eyes flick down and then back up to take in the sight of me. “Nice sweater.”

I look down at it. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“I left it out hoping you’d put it on.” He smiles. “You look good in my clothes.”

He’s facing me now, which means I can see his chest. I can see his milky white skin and the definition in his pecs and the trail of dark hair that starts under his navel and leads down into his sweatpants. Not for the first time, I wonder how the fuck I managed to get through seven years of cohabitating with this creature and never once truly acknowledge that I want to climb him like a fucking tree.

“You look good in no clothes,” I blurt.

I can tell he hasn’t fed in a while, because he doesn’t blush, but he does look pleased. And sheepish. I want to tackle him to the ground and see how much of his spit I can get in my mouth.

“I’m wearing clothes,” he says, and he almost sounds shy.

“That’s a shame.”

He huffs a laugh, trying to cover himself up with a gloved hand. “I feel objectified, Snow.”

“Simon.”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you hungry, _Simon_?”

“Do you even need to ask?” I walk the few steps it takes to close the distance between us, then tip up on my toes to try to peer over him.

“Oi,” he says softly, taking me by the shoulders and spinning me around. “It’s meant to be a surprise. Go back to bed and let me bring it to you like I intended.” He pushes me gently, but I catch his hand and spin around to plant a kiss on him. I miss slightly, pressing my lips to the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He grins against my face. “ _Go_ , you menace. I’ll be there in a minute.”

**Baz**

I wish I could bottle the way it feels to make Simon Snow happy. It is quite literally the best feeling in the world.

Aside, perhaps, from him grabbing the back of my neck and pulling my mouth to his because he can’t wait the half second it would take to just lean in like a normal person. I love his impatience. I love his roughness. I love the way he picks up a scone like it’s something precious and shoves his nose into it.

“It smells just like the ones from Watford.” The marvel in his voice. I want to fucking eat him. In all the ways.

I push him away reluctantly. “Butter it,” I tell him, handing him a knife. “While the scone’s still hot enough to melt it.”

He does, then takes a bite, and I swear to Crowley there are tears in his eyes.

“Baz,” he garbles through the food in his mouth. “It tastes just the same.”

I can’t help the smugness of my grin. “It is the same. I finally convinced Pritchard to give me the recipe.”

He drops the scone onto the tray and hides his face in his hands.

I wait. I can’t pretend to understand what food means to him, but I know it means something. Where for me it’s mostly just another thing I have to do to keep myself alive, for him it’s something much more. That’s what this was all about, really. He talks about these bloody scones all the time, how much he misses them, how he’s tempted sometimes to go back to Watford just to sneak into the dining hall and gorge himself on them.

I wanted to do something nice for him. I wanted to see his face when I gave him something he loves.

When he finally looks at me, he actually is crying a little bit. “I don’t know what to say,” he murmurs.

“Just enjoy it,” I tell him. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“I’m so bad with words.”

“ _Eat_.” I snake my arm between the pillow he’s leant against and his back, rubbing slow circles. “I slaved over these damn things.”

He laughs wetly, picking his discarded scone back up and shoving the entire thing in his mouth. “It’s so fucking good.” Crumbs sprinkle down the front of his (my) hoodie.

“Crowley, Snow. Watching you eat is almost enough to put me off it permanently.”

He grins widely, then swallows, and I’m lying. I love watching him eat. I love his showy swallow. I love the enthusiasm, the lack of regard for manners, the joyful abandon. He cuts a pat of butter that would be enough for four scones and puts it on one.

He moans when he bites into it, and I’m not proud of the way the sound tugs at something low in my gut. I’m so gone for him, it’s sickening. I want to kiss him and eat the food from his mouth like a baby bird. He swallows again and I want to bite right into his Adam’s apple and see if his blood tastes as buttery as it smells.

“Aren’t you gonna eat?” he asks, and I realize I must have been staring at him for a while.

I shrug. “Thought I’d leave them for you.”

He frowns, then picks one up and thrusts it at me. “Eat.”

I roll my eyes, but his concern thrills me. I take a small bite, and my fangs pop. “Fuck,” I mutter, covering my mouth. I can get them back in, I just need to concentrate.

But Snow grabs my hand and pulls it away before I can do anything. “Don’t hide them,” he says.

“I can retract them.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to. You know it doesn’t bother me.”

I look at him skeptically. He’s said it a thousand times, but I’m no closer to believing him. Snow is a selfless kind of a person. He knows I’m sensitive about it, so he tries to be nice. But I don’t know if I’ll ever believe that it doesn’t unnerve him at least a little bit, somewhere deep down.

“Show me,” he demands.

I don’t.

He reaches up and pushes up my top lip. I can’t bring myself to stop him.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I know you don’t _mind_ —”

“I think they’re hot.” He runs the pad of his finger against the tip. Against the sharpest point.

I should definitely stop him. He could so easily break the skin, and I don’t know what would happen if I got a taste of him now.

“You could bite me,” he says, and he might as well be asking me to fuck him.

I don’t refuse as vehemently as I should. He’s looking at me like he wants it. “I can’t.”

“How come you’re allowed to give me things and I’m not allowed to return the favour?”

“Because there’s no risk involved in me baking for you.”

“But Lamb said—”

“Fuck Lamb,” I growl.

It doesn’t have the effect I intended, because what Simon does then is push his finger into my mouth. I can feel his pulse on my tongue. My lips close around his knuckle like I have no control of myself.

I won’t bite him. But I can suck his finger a little bit. I can torture myself. I’ve had dreams about this. There’s no configuration of Snow being inside me that I haven’t fantasized about.

“You want to, don’t you?” His voice is velvety and low.

I promised myself I’d never lie to him. He asked for honesty, and it’s what he deserves. So I nod.

“I want you to,” he says, pushing another finger into my mouth.

I pull them out and kiss his wet skin. “Why?”

“Because…” He runs his other hand through his curls, tugging roughly. “Because I’m not afraid of it. And it’s what you’re meant to do. It’s natural.”

“It’s natural for a lion to eat a deer, Snow. That doesn’t mean it isn’t a tragedy for the deer.”

“You’re not a predator.”

I kiss his fingers again. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

He’s frowning, and I hate it. “I want to make you happy.”

I can’t help laughing. His frown only deepens, but it’s just so utterly ridiculous. This poor stupid boy.

“You do that without trying,” I tell him. “You do that just by breathing.”

He doesn’t say anything, so I keep going. “I know I’m not exactly an expert at relationships, but I don’t think we’re supposed to keep score.”

“What?”

“I don’t expect payment for doing a nice thing for you. All the payment I need is you feeling good for a few minutes.”

“I want to make you feel good.”

“You _do_ ,” I insist. “Crowley, Simon. Surely you must know by now how deeply I adore you.”

**Simon**

Well fuck me.

He looks kind of shocked, like he hadn’t meant to confess that, but he doesn’t take it back. He just asks, “Too much honesty?”

I shake my head.

“I don’t want to bite you, Snow.”

“Okay.”

“There are so many things I do want. Things that wouldn’t hurt you.”

I try to raise my eyebrow like he always does, but I don’t think it works. “Like what?”

He gives me a long, cool look, his eyes roaming over my face and then down. He can’t see much since I’m fully dressed and half my body is under the duvet, but it still makes the blood rush up to my face.

Then he says, “I want you to eat your scones.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Baz**

I really hate hunting.

I hate sucking the life out of furry little creatures. I hate sneaking out in the middle of the night. I hate having to leave the warmth of Snow’s bed to prowl in the dark like a predator.

I hate the dark. Aleister fucking Crowley, I hate the dark. I hate that I need it, that being what I am necessitates that I actively seek it out.

I’ve taken to spelling the ceiling of Snow’s bedroom with stars as a sort of night light when we go to sleep. He’s been decent enough not to point out how pathetic I am.

I wish he was here with me now.

But no, I don’t. Letting him see me drain those birds in Vegas was bad enough. I couldn’t bear him being witness to me stalking back alleys of dirty London streets at half two in the morning, spelling my prey silent so I don’t have to hear their squeaks of protest.

I don’t want him to see that. But I do want him. I want him to hold my hand and make me warm. I want him to be my light.

I hate the dark. I hate the wet pavement. I hate that I still let it get to me, that I can feel the panic simmering in my gut any time I hear the hushed voices and footsteps of late night passers-by.

I hate that tonight it’s so bad that I can’t focus enough to catch anything to drain. My throat is dry, my gums throbbing. It’s been almost two full days since I fed. I can’t climb back into Snow’s bed with thirst like this. Especially not knowing that he thinks he wants me to bite him.

He’s an idiot. A very lovable idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. He’s too noble, always has been. Not a fucking ounce of self preservation in his entire body. It’s like he doesn’t know how to do things by half. He doesn’t know what to do with himself if he’s not throwing his whole weight into whatever he’s doing. No one ever taught him the value in moderation.

There are a lot of things no one ever taught him.

Just then a rat scurries by me, practically right over my feet. I should be able to catch it easily, but all I do is watch as it disappears behind a dumpster. My stomach feels empty and gnarled. I press my back into the brick of whatever shop I’m currently lurking behind and let my legs give out, sliding down until my ass hits the dirty ground. I’ll ruin my jeans, which is a shame because I’m pretty sure Snow likes the way my thighs look in these ones. He’s not very subtle when he ogles. I fucking love it.

Merlin. I really do wish he was here.

A few moments later, I dig my mobile out of my pocket and dial his number. Because I’m selfish and weak. Because he’s my boyfriend, and he wants to make me happy, and hearing his voice right now would go a long way to making what I have to do before I go back to him just that little bit more bearable.

He answers on the fourth ring, just before the call is about to roll over to voicemail.

“Baz?” he croaks, and even just _hearing_ him makes my mouth water.

“Good morning, Snow.”

“Where are you?”

“Outside.”

I hear him rustling around in his sheets, and his breaths come out in little grunts. “It’s too hot in here without you,” he tells me.

“It’s too cold out here without you,” I counter, my voice far, far too melancholy.

He picks up on it right away. “Are you okay?”

My Pitch sensibilities would have my upper lip stiff as a board, but I’m tired and thirsty and, fuck it all to hell, I’m afraid of the bloody dark. “I needed to hear your voice.”

“Baz.” He sounds panicked now. “Are you safe?

“I’m fine, Snow. I just…” I tip my head back against the brick and let out a long sigh. “I’m so tired of this.”

“Of what? Being with me?”

I snap my head up. “What? No. Why would you— No, Simon, of course not.”

“Okay. Sorry. What’s wrong?”

“I’m cold and wet and the dark feels like it’s eating me alive.”

There’s more rustling on the other end of the line, and the distinctive creak of bedsprings. “Where are you? I’m coming.”

“No,” I say quickly. “Stay in bed, Snow. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“You can hear it in person.”

“I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“I don’t want you out there scared and alone.” He says it with such conviction. He doesn’t do things by half.

I want to argue, just for the sake of my pride. But pride has never gotten me anywhere I actually want to be.

“Tell me where you are, Baz. You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

**Simon**

“Simon, you need to do the shopping today.”

Penny is stood in front of the open fridge, bending over to poke her head in. We both know she’s not going to find anything.

I grumble my acknowledgement at her, raising my mug of tea to take a gulp. It’s not got any milk in it, because of course, we’ve run out of that. Just like we’ve run out of everything else.

It’s not like I don’t agree that we need groceries for the flat. And it’s not like I’ve got anything else to do. I’m just really bad at doing the shopping. I don’t know how to cook. Baz and Pen have both tried to teach me, but there’s some kind of block in my brain. I think it’s a side effect of growing up in care. Pen thinks it’s because I’m stubborn. Maybe it’s both.

“Can you make me a list?”

I can tell she tries very hard not to sigh. I’m sure she reckons it shouldn’t be that hard to figure out, but she also knows that if she leaves me to my own devices, I’ll come back with too many frozen meals to fit in the flat’s tiny freezer.

“I’ll do it on the tube,” she says. “I’ve got to go, class starts in forty minutes.”

“I’m sorry, Pen.”

She looks a little extra frazzled today. Her hair is really poofy and she’s wearing trackies, which she never does. I didn’t even know she owned trousers. It feels strange that I can’t see her dimpled knees.

Her face softens when I apologize for my uselessness. “For what?” She walks over to me and ruffles my hair.

“You seem…” I look up at her.

“I’m just tired.”

Looking at her like this, I’m realizing I haven’t spent much time with her lately. I haven’t even _spoken_ to her much. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here, silly.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I’m okay, Simon. We’re okay. This is just what it’s like to be adults, I think. We can’t be glued at the hip like we were.”

That makes me feel weirdly sad.

She leans down and kisses my forehead. “I’ll text you the list, yeah?”

I nod.

She’s halfway out the door when an idea occurs to me.

“Pen!” I shout. “What’s your favourite meal?”

-

The list of ingredients needed to make Biryani is shockingly long, but I’m determined.

(And I’ve got an endlessly supportive boyfriend who only has one class this morning and has agreed to help me fumble my way through the recipe to surprise Penny when she gets home tonight.)

Because he’s an unfailingly posh git, Baz insisted I go to Waitrose, so that’s what I’m doing. I’ve got his credit card in my pocket, so if he wants the fancy stuff, that’s what I’m gonna get.

The shopping takes nearly an hour, even with Penny’s list. I keep missing things and having to turn around and go back three or four aisles to get it. By the time I’m finally stood in line at the checkout, the trolley is nearly overflowing.

Sometimes it’s painful that my two best friends in the world also happen to be extremely gifted magicians. Sometimes it reminds me of what I’ve lost. But on days like this, it reminds me that I’m lucky, because it means I have a backpack that is spelled bottomless as well as weightless. I make sure to pack the shopping into it discreetly, then sling it over one shoulder like it’s nothing.

I’m feeling good. I’m feeling bloody great, actually. Being useful tends to do that to me. I don’t contribute much to society these days, but at least I can do this. I can do chores. Maybe when I get home I’ll do the washing up. Maybe I’ll surprise Baz by doing _his_ laundry for once.

That’s what I’m thinking about, what I can do to surprise Baz, when I walk past a butcher shop. I’ve walked past it a hundred times by now, it’s only a few blocks from home. I pass it nearly every time I leave the flat. But I’ve never really looked at it. The only reason I do now is because there’s a man in the window. He’s fiddling with a poster that promises the highest quality cuts for the most reasonable prices, but I’m not looking at the advert.

I’m looking at the man. At his apron. His crisp white apron stained across his belly with a deep dark red.

**Baz**

I can’t pretend I don’t sigh internally when Snow texts me at nine in the morning asking if I’ll help him cook a full blown Indian meal when I get home from school. It’s sweet that he wants to do something for Bunce, and Merlin knows I’m not going to discourage him from trying to learn how to cook.

But I’m exhausted. I haven’t been sleeping well. I haven’t been feeding well. I’m thirsty and tired, weak and pale. I can’t get sick the way regular people do, but I kind of feel like I am. I was actually hoping Snow would be keen on sharing an afternoon nap with me. I could use his warm arms around my weary bones today.

I’m just climbing the steps to our building when he texts me asking when I’ll be home. His enthusiasm is so adorable, it almost makes me forget how crap I feel.

As soon as I open the door, I smell it: blood.

Not Snow’s, not Bunce’s, and not the trace amounts left in whatever meat he’s just picked up from the shop. This is overwhelming, the metallic tang of iron hitting my nose and making my fangs pop before I even have a hope of reining them in.

“Baz?” he calls from the kitchen. “Come in here!”

He doesn’t sound like he’s dying. I don’t know why that had been my first thought. I’m really off my game.

I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with me. Even with Snow accompanying me on my nightly feeds now, the whole thing is starting to chip away at me; the death, the darkness.

I drop my bag at the door and toe off my shoes, trying in vain to retract my fangs. “Why does it smell like you’ve slaughtered livestock in your kitchen?” I shout back.

When I enter the kitchen, he’s leant back against the counter grinning as wide as I’ve ever seen him grin.

“You’re not far off,” he says smugly, then hands me a mug.

I don’t bother trying to cover my mouth. He’d only grab my hand away and scold me for it.

I don’t need to look in the mug to know what’s in it, but I do anyway. The red is so dark it looks black, and the smell is… well, it’s fucking maddening.

“Simon…” I look up at him. “What did you do?”

“Just drink it,” he says. “I even heated it up for you.”

He did. The mug is pleasantly warm against my ice cold palm.

“Don’t watch,” I almost whisper, ashamed of how badly I want to tip it back and feel the thickness coat my throat on the way down.

He folds his arms stubbornly, eyes glued to my face.

“Please,” I say, openly begging. “Please don’t watch.”

His face softens, and he turns around.

It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. It doesn’t smell like human blood, but I’m afraid I could be wrong. It makes every cell in my body sing. I feel instantly warmer, stronger, sharper.

I’ve drained the mug in three seconds flat, and all my animal instincts are screaming for more. “Bloody fucking hell,” I croak, and Snow turns around again.

“It’s good?”

He looks like a child on Christmas morning.

“It’s…” Words escape me. “What is it?”

“Pig,” he says proudly.

“Did you kill a pig, Snow?”

“No, I got it from the butcher. It wasn’t even difficult. All I had to do was ask. Only cost me a tenner.”

I stand there mute long enough that he steps forward and takes the mug from my hand. He puts it on the counter and then tips up on his toes to drape his arms around the back of my neck.

I should pull away. My breath probably smells like rust and offal. But he presses his forehead to mine and I’m not strong enough to deny myself his warmth and affection and buttery soft scent.

“Baz,” he murmurs. “You know what this means, yeah?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “You never have to hunt again if you don’t want to.”

It’s not easy to make a Pitch cry, but Simon Snow has mastered it.

Once I’ve pulled myself together and brushed my teeth thoroughly and snogged him within an inch of his life, we get to work on the biryani. He’s a complete disaster in the kitchen, but he’s my disaster. My brave, selfless disaster.

I’m cutting thin slices off an onion while he watches. I feel like a different person, like my veins are buzzing. He looks gorgeous, overgrown bronze curls tumbling over his forehead, freckles looking extra kissable.

So I do it, I lean in and kiss one of the moles above his eye.

He smiles. “What was that for?”

I chew my lip a bit, wondering if I should say what I’m thinking of saying. It has the potential to be painful for both of us.

“Hey,” he says, hooking a finger under my chin and tilting my face up to look at him. “What’s up?”

I take a breath. “I don’t think you fully understand how much this means to me.”

“So tell me.”

The onion makes my eyes water, which feels fitting even if they’re not real tears. “After I was turned, no one in my family ever spoke of it. Which was fine when I was a child. I didn’t really want to talk about it anyway. Part of me hoped that somehow I’d been spared. But then puberty hit and I knew that I hadn’t. It was fourth year and all these changes were happening to my body and suddenly I just…” I look up at him. “You get it.”

“You needed blood.”

“I didn’t know what to do. Every time anyone got too close to me I had to cover my mouth and run away so they wouldn’t see my fangs. And so I wouldn’t be tempted to use them.”

He’s listening so intently.

“One night I went down to the Catacombs just to get away from… from you. The smell of you in our room at night was fucking torture. I went down into the ground because I knew there wouldn’t be anyone there to tempt me. I think I was truly half dead by then, I was so thirsty. When I saw the first rat, it didn’t stand a chance.”

My hands are trembling now, so Snow reaches over and gently takes the knife from my hand. He pulls the cutting board in front of him and picks up where I left off. His slices are too thick, but I’m sure as hell not going to correct him.

“Keep going,” he says.

“That just became my routine. Suffer through the days, wait til you were asleep, head down to the Catacombs to feed on rats and mice and whatever else had the misfortune of wandering across my path. When I got older and more confident, I sometimes hunted in the Wood. Rabbits taste better than rats. Deer were the best. But it was riskier, so usually I stuck to the tombs.”

“Your mother was down there,” he says quietly.

I nod.

“Baz, that’s fucking…” He puts the knife down. “I was such a cunt to you that whole time. And you were all alone. Just trying to survive.”

“I wasn’t exactly Miss Congeniality either.”

He shakes his head. I wish I hadn’t said anything.

I reach out for him, slide my hand up his arm to squeeze his shoulder. “We’ve both got horror stories. You were surviving too.”

“Yeah, but I had Penny at least.”

“I’m trying to thank you. I’m trying to tell you that you’ve done an incredible life changing thing for me today.”

I want to tell him that he’s still every bit a hero in my eyes, but that’s probably too much for him to hear right now.

“I’ve never been able to talk about this with anyone,” I tell him. “Feels kind of nice to get some of it off my chest.”

He actually smiles a little at that. “Basilton Pitch talking about his feelings,” he muses. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

“It’s entirely your own fault, Snow. You wanted honesty.”

“I still do. I just wish the truth wasn’t that you were hurting and I was making it worse.”

“I honestly don’t see it that way.”

He gives me a skeptical look. “How do you see it?”

I shrug, sliding my hand down his arm to take the knife back. His onion slicing skills seem to be getting worse rather than better. “My rivalry with you was what kept me going when everything else felt shit. I never felt more alive than when we were at each other’s throats.”

“I thought I hated you so much.” He rests his chin in his hands as he watches me slice. “But I always missed you over the summer. You were the only thing I didn’t put on my list of things not to think about, because I knew there was no use.”

“I’m an elephant on your chest,” I say, remembering his words from that night in my bedroom in Hampshire, next to the fire.

“Yup.”

“I scarcely thought of anything _but_ you over the summers,” I confess. “You made quite a home of my dreams.”

He’s quiet a long time. Which is fine. I know he doesn’t always like to talk. I get up and walk towards the stove to begin the process of frying the onions.

“I don’t get it.”

I turn around. “Get what?”

“Why you liked me.”

I stand there unmoving. Unwilling to believe that’s a question he’s actually asking me. “Are you asking for a list?”

He shrugs.

“I don’t think it works like that. I wasn’t weighing the pros and cons. Attraction isn’t a science, Snow. I just… felt it.”

He nods, but doesn’t say anything.

“Do you actually want a list?”

He smirks. “I dunno. Maybe I do.”

“Nothing is immediately coming to mind.”

The smirk breaks out into a grin as he grabs a scrap of onion and hurls it at me. He lets the topic drop after that and gets up to help me cook, but I promise myself that from now on, he won’t have to wonder what I like about him.

We’ve managed some semblance of biryani (namely, a pile of rice and meat and vegetables that smells like Indian takeaway) by the time Bunce comes home, and watching his face light up at her surprise and delight has me feeling weepy all over again. The three of us cram together on the sofa to eat and watch telly until we're fighting sleep.

There’s a bucket of pig’s blood in Simon Snow’s refrigerator. I heat a mug of it in the microwave and drink it before I begin my nighttime hygiene routine.

Tonight, I crawl into bed next to Snow knowing that thanks to him, I don’t have to crawl back out again. I never have to crawl back out again if I don’t want to.

And I don’t.


	5. Chapter 5

**Baz**

The problem with having a consistent source of nutrient rich blood flowing through my system is just that. I’m full of blood.

I’m also spending every night curled up next to my incredibly fit boyfriend, a person to whom I’ve been unreasonably attracted for almost half my life.

Today, I feel the effects of my newfound vitality before I’ve even opened my eyes.

I’m hard. Painfully so. And I’m pressed right up against the back of Snow’s body.

He isn’t wearing a shirt. He smells like blood and butter, warm and fatty and a little bit salty, and his back is patterned with freckles and moles like someone took a brush and flicked brown paint across the broad stretch of his shoulders.

He kissed me last night. A lot. He laid me down on his bed and climbed on top of me and sucked colour into my lips. He let me slip my hands up under his shirt to touch the fire of his skin. Then he let me take the shirt off entirely. I was stiff as a board, but he didn’t mention it. I don’t know if he felt it.

I don’t know if he feels it now. I don’t know if I hope he does or not. I don’t want him to get scared.

I close my eyes and try to breathe through the urge to roll my hips into him, to take the pressure off a little. To use his body for just a little bit of blissful friction.

I’m confident we’ll get there someday, to the place where I can wake up aching for him and ask him to take care of me. I think we’ll have that in the future. But he’s not there yet. And my cock is so full of blood I’m a bit worried damage will occur if I don’t do something about it.

So I tear myself away from what I really want, rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling for a few moments before getting up and heading for a much needed hot shower.

**Simon**

I’m disappointed when Baz gets up, but I don’t try to stop him. I keep my eyes closed and pretend I’m still asleep until he closes the door behind him.

Then I roll onto my back, reaching up to push my hair off my forehead. I keep my fingers tangled in the rat’s nest of curls. Just to keep them occupied.

To keep from reaching down and touching myself.

Baz doesn’t shower in the morning. He showers at night and I shower in the morning. It’s been our routine since we were eleven, and old habits die hard.

But I can hear the water running now, and I know why.

He was so hard. I could feel it on the back of my thigh. And my arse. Also last night, when I was on top of him, letting myself snog him all wet and messy and full of the enthusiasm I usually try to keep bottled up.

I think maybe it’s the blood. He gets so much more of it now. He gets what he’s actually been needing all these years.

I can't stop thinking about it. About him, what he must look like right now, streams of hot water running down that chest of his. Touching himself where I’ve never seen him before.

Is he thinking about me?

I’m driving myself mental. I’m throbbing between my legs. It feels almost impossible not to relieve the pressure, like it isn’t just an urge but a physical need like eating when you’re starving or having a wee when you’ve been holding it for hours.

But I can’t do it. I don’t know why I can’t do it. It’s not like I’ve never had a wank before. I have. Just not since I fell in love with Baz.

And it’s not like I don’t want him, because Merlin and Morgana, I do. It’s getting more difficult every day to pull away from him when we’re kissing.

I think I’ve got the kissing thing sorted. I even let him kiss me now, and it doesn’t feel like being suffocated. It doesn’t feel like he’s pressuring me. I trust him. I’ve made progress.

But everything else still feels terrifying. I’m scared of how much I want him. I’m scared of how much he wants me. I put sex on my list of things not to think about a long time ago, along with Ebb and the Mage, the Humdrum, being abandoned by my parents and everything that happened to me in care. And I know that physical intimacy with the person I love doesn’t belong on a list with all my most devastating traumas, but… well, old habits die hard. I’m scared of it, so I don’t think about it.

But I can’t not think about it anymore. Not when Baz wakes me up by poking his stiffy into my bum cheek.

-

I’m still half hard when Baz comes in from his shower, and the sight of him all flushed and wet and smelling like cedar and bergamot doesn’t help.

He seems surprised to find me awake. “Oh,” he says, clutching more tightly to the towel wrapped around his waist. “You’re up.”

“Mhm.”

“Good morning.”

“Morning.” I wonder if my face is as red as it feels. “Another shower?”

He’s so smooth, so cool. Doesn’t miss a beat. “Thought I’d loosen my muscles up. For the game, you know.”

I don’t point out that he has football games every Sunday afternoon and has never once included a shower in his preparations for them. He’s allowed his privacy. Why should I expect him to be forthcoming about his sexual needs when all I’ve done in the past is make it clear that those needs left me feeling cornered and confused?

“Good idea,” I say, pulling myself up to sit against the headboard. I’m careful to keep the duvet over my lap.

He walks over to my dresser and pulls open one of the drawers. “Will you be watching?”

He’s trying to sound casual, like he doesn’t care about the answer. He’s got his back to me, and I’m momentarily distracted hoping he’s going to drop the towel and show me his arse again.

Then he turns around, with what looks to be a full outfit of clothes in his hands. “Snow?”

“Huh?”

“Are you coming to my game?”

“Yeah, of course. Pen’s coming too.”

He smiles. It’s a soft one, a shy one. It makes my heart feel funny.

“Good,” he says. Then he starts walking towards the door.

“What are you doing?” I blurt.

He stops. “I need to get dressed.”

“So get dressed.”

His cheeks are properly pink. It’s such a good look on him that I’m tempted to reach out and just yank the towel off myself.

“You’re not supposed to run off to the bathroom to change anymore, remember?” I say.

He swallows. “Right.”

I sit. Waiting.

“You… you know I’m naked, yeah?”

I bark out a laugh. “I know you think I’m an idiot, Basilton, but come on.”

He starts to bluster, clearly hesitant, and suddenly I feel like _I’m_ the one doing the pressuring.

“You don’t have to,” I say. “Sorry.”

I’m not aroused anymore, so I feel safe throwing the covers off my lap and trying to hop out of bed. I reckon I need to drown my frustration in an extra large breakfast.

Before I can make it anywhere, Baz is there, fingers wrapped around my wrist. “Simon.”

I sit on the edge of the bed. “What?”

He seems pained by what he says next. “I’m sorry. If I made you uncomfortable.”

Somehow I know he’s not talking about right now, but earlier, when I was pretending to be asleep.

“It wasn’t—” He cuts himself off. “I just woke up that way.”

“It’s fine,” I say looking down at my lap. “I mean, it’s normal, innit?”

“It doesn’t mean you need to… want things. That you aren’t ready for.”

I shake my head, slipping my wrist from his grasp so I can hold his hand. I can’t look at his face, so I kiss his knuckles and then say what I have to say while staring at the way we fit together, my wide fingers laced between his long elegant ones.

“I want to see you. If you want me to see.” I take a breath to slow my pounding heart. “I’m not going to do anything. I just want to look at you.”

He drops my hand, then takes a few steps back and drops the towel. There’s no swell of triumphant music or anything like that, because life isn’t like it is in films and on telly. It feels profound to me, but in reality it’s a little awkward. He stands there naked, his arms hanging at his sides, his hands balled up in loose fists like he’s got no idea how to hold himself.

I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t know either. It just makes me love him even more. I love him so much it hurts my chest.

He’s beautiful. It doesn’t even feel sexy, even though I can see his cock and balls and his strong thighs and sharp hipbones and he kind of looks like marble, like something sculpted and slightly too perfect to be real. It doesn’t turn me on, it just makes me want to cry. In a good way, I think. I don’t know. I feel overwhelmed.

“Thank you,” I say. Obviously it’s the wrong thing to say, but I’m pretty good at that.

“Bloody hell, Snow,” he says, dipping down to scoop up the towel and cover himself up again. “Did you hate it that much?”

I shake my head. “I love you.”

Again, there’s no music. Just Baz’s face, pale now, proper shocked.

“You love me,” he says flatly.

I nod. “Have done for a long time. Sorry it took me so long to tell you.”

“I want to kiss you,” he says. “But I’m naked and I don’t want you to think I’m trying—”

“Just fucking do it, please.”

Then he’s on me and I’m on my back and his mouth is cold on mine and his tongue is minty and I know the towel has slipped off of him because when I reach up to touch his hip there’s only skin. It doesn’t scare me, not right now.

It takes me a while to realize he’s crying. I kiss his cheek and taste salt.

“Don’t,” I whisper, rolling us over so I’m on top.

He doesn’t say anything. His eyes are closed and spilling down tears. His eyelashes are long and dark and wet and I kiss those too, holding him on either side of his face so he can’t pull away. I like this, him falling apart. So often it’s me, but today it’s him and I’m not going to let him hide it from me.

“I love you, Baz,” I tell him again. Over and over I tell him, and he cries, and I don’t need the music. Real life is better.

**Baz**

I never actually said it back. I was too overwhelmed. He kept saying it, as if he couldn’t stop once he started. As if he’d had years worth of declarations stored away and they all came bursting out like air from a popped balloon.

The effect those words had on me did not dull with their repeated assertions. If anything, I felt each one deeper and deeper. Like I had a hole in me just as deep as the hole he’d been storing all this love.

Actually, I think the hole in me is bottomless. I’ll never have my fill of his love.

Crowley. He’s made me soft. He’s made me stupid.

I love it.

I love _him_.

I’m going to tell him that, of course. Maybe tonight. Maybe I should just shout it from here on the pitch, right now, shout it up to him where he sits next to Bunce on the bleachers.

I can’t stop looking at him. He’s distracting me from the game even more than usual. Why should I give a toss about kicking a ball around a field when there’s a man in the stands who’s wearing a hoodie with my name on it? A man who loves me.

I look at him and he’s already looking back at me, smiling.

**Simon**

Baz keeps looking up at me, and I give him a grin every time, like a big stupid puppy. He just looks so… _happy_. Honestly, it’s not a look that I see on him often enough.

It’s happening more and more, though.

And he’s not the only one feeling happy today. I feel it too. I’m all weird and fluttery inside. It’s hard to keep still.

I don’t notice that I'm jiggling my leg until Penny puts her hand on it to stop me. She’s not even watching the game, her nose buried in a textbook, but I know Baz doesn’t care. And I don’t either. I’m glad to be spending time with her, even if all it really means is sitting next to each other while we do our own thing.

Right now my thing is watching my boyfriend kick ass at football. He’s so obviously better than anyone else on the team. When he kicks the ball it goes and goes. When he runs, no one stands a chance of catching him. He could probably do this professionally if he wanted to. He doesn’t, of course, said it wouldn’t be fair to all the players whose senses aren’t vampirically heightened, but still. I’m proud.

I’m wearing his hoodie, the one that says Pitch on the back. Part of me hopes everyone notices. Part of me wants everyone to know he’s mine.

Penny puts her hand on my leg. I guess I was jiggling again.

“Simon,” she scolds gently. “How much coffee did you have this morning?”

“None.”

“What’s wrong with you, then? You’re all bouncy.”

I laugh. “Well I’m happy, aren’t I?”

She looks up from her homework properly then, and pushes her glasses up from where they’ve slid to the end of her nose. “You are?”

“Yeah.” I frown. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Her eyes flick down to my hoodie and then back up to my face. “Of course not.”

“What’s wrong with _you_?” I ask. I’m noticing now that her eyebrows are kind of pinched in the middle. Her hair is in two plaits, one on either side of her head, and it looks nice, but also weird. Penny without a big frizzy poof of hair is weird. She looks too grown up like this.

She sighs, snapping her book shut and putting it on the empty spot beside her. There are a lot of empty spots in the bleachers. Recreational football games aren’t exactly a huge draw. Plus it’s kind of cold out today. I’m not cold, but I’ve seen Penny shiver a couple times. I know she probably didn’t want to join me today, but she did anyway because she’s a good mate. The best mate.

“What is it?” I ask.

She bites her lip. “I dunno. Nothing, really. Just… I think I have a little crush on Shepard.”

I burst out laughing. She frowns, which only sets me off harder.

“What!” she shouts, shoving me in the arm.

“You think?” I ask. “You _think_?! I was expecting an engagement announcement soon!”

“What are you on about!” She’s still shouting. People are looking at us, but I can’t stop laughing. She punches me this time. “Shut up, Simon!”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” I wipe the moisture from my eyes on Baz’s hoodie and drape my arm over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Pen, I genuinely thought it was a fact that you lot were like, super in love.”

“What the hell, Simon, no. Of course not.”

“You spend all your free time on the phone with him.”

“He’s constantly ringing me!” she says defensively. “It’d be rude to ignore him.”

“You didn’t care about being rude to him when we were in America,” I point out.

“Yeah, well.” She huffs. “I didn’t trust him then, did I?”

“And you do now?”

She looks displeased at having to admit that she does.

“What’re you cross about?” I ask, shaking her gently. “This is great.”

“What if he doesn’t like me back?”

I roll my eyes. “Come on, Pen. Don’t be daft. He liked you immediately. We could all see it, I know you could too.”

She has the decency not to argue. She’s biting her lip again. Chewing it, more like. “Should I tell him?”

“Definitely.” I turn my gaze back out to the pitch, back out to Baz. He’s got his hair in a bun and some colour in his cheeks. Watching him play reminds me of Watford, of days just like this where I’d sit on the sidelines and stare, trying not to think about why I could never get him out of my head. “Don’t be like me and Baz,” I tell her gently. “Don’t waste a bunch of time pretending you don’t want each other.”

She lays her head on my shoulder. “I was afraid you’d say that.” Then she links her arm around mine. I can’t tell if it’s because we’re having a moment or just because she’s cold. I’m happy either way.


	6. Chapter 6

**Simon**

I’ve never been very good at sleeping. At the homes I had to keep one eye open, even when I was little. I would wake at the slightest noise, in case it was someone coming to thump me. Half the time it was. I got good at being proactive, at not letting my guard down just because I was technically unconscious.

I guess once something’s become a habit, it’s hard to break.

I think tonight it was just Penny going to the loo. Her bedroom door is really squeaky, and the floorboards in the hall creak if you step on them wrong. Penny always steps on them wrong. I can’t blame her, of course, because I do too. Neither of us are exactly graceful.

Baz moves down the hallway silently every time. He’s all grace. Grace and long limbs and footfalls like a fucking ballerina. It used to annoy me no end. But then… it didn’t, did it? I was just annoyed at how much it made me want him. But I put the wanting on the list of things not to think about, so all that was left was the annoyance.

I sigh, rolling onto my back, looking up at the light from passing cars that shines through the window and plays onto the ceiling. I hate not sleeping. I’m not good at blocking out my thought spirals when I’m tired.

Baz is asleep next to me. I turn my head to look at him, and I’m flooded with nice feelings. He’s so different when he sleeps; all the severity of his expression melts away into something softer, more vulnerable. He looks younger. He’s laid on his stomach, face half buried in the pillow that he’s got a hand shoved underneath. I’m glad he was a thought spiral I couldn’t block out. Chomsky knows where I’d be right now if not for him.

I might be dead, I suppose. The Mage may have succeeded in taking my magic. He might have done to me what he did to Ebb. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly against the image of her sprawled on the ground cold and lifeless as her blood slowly spread out around her in a halo of deep red.

I don’t want to think about this. I want to remember her as she lived, grotty and melancholy but content, tending her goats. Making me tea and feeding me stale biscuits. Bundled up in scarves and jumpers watching football on a telly that ran on magic.

Sometimes I pretend she’s carrying on. I tell myself she’s still at Watford, and it’s not really a lie. She is there, buried somewhere deep in the Wood. We all agreed she’d like that better than the catacombs.

Baz snuffles, a sleepy little noise that pulls me from my morbidity. It’s so nice to have him here, right next to me from dusk til dawn. He never has to leave anymore, and I don’t have to worry about him. He doesn’t even spell the ceiling with stars now. I think the dark isn’t quite so dark now that he doesn’t have to hunt things to stay alive.

I can’t help reaching out and brushing a strand of hair off his face, letting my thumb linger its way across the arch of his eyebrow, aristocratic even in sleep. He shifts, then hums, and I don’t pretend I’m not watching him.

“What?” he murmurs, reaching out for me blindly.

I let him pull me in close. I tuck my face into the cool of his neck. “Nothing,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

**Baz**

The second time he wakes me up tonight, there’s nothing tender about it. He’s thrashing around in bed, shouting and growling. He manages to smash the top of his head up into my jaw before I can grab his shoulders and shake him out of whatever terror has gripped him in unconsciousness.

He doesn’t wake easily. He bats at me with errant fists like I’ve taken the shape of his nightmare. He’s too out of sorts to actually hurt me, but I pin him down against the bed anyway. I know if he manages to get a proper punch in, the guilt will eat him alive later.

“Snow,” I say forcefully. “Snow!”

He stops fighting and starts to cry. “Let me go,” he whimpers. “Please. Stop hurting me.”

I let him go, though I know he’s not really talking to me. “Simon,” I say, taking his hand in mind. “Wake up, love.”

He opens his eyes, fear clouding the blue for a long moment before the truth slowly sinks in: he’s not in danger. He’s just haunted.

I think he’s going to reach for me. I think he’s going to let me comfort him. I hope he is, anyway. He’s laid out beneath me, shirtless and wild and trembling, and all I want is to take it away. I squeeze his hand.

And he snatches it away. “What?” he asks gruffly.

“I— You were having a nightmare,” I tell him, my voice pathetically weak. He’s looking at me like he used to, like he has to hide what he’s feeling lest I try to use it against him. “I just—”

There’s a sharp knock on Snow’s door. “Simon?” It’s Bunce. “Are you alright?”

“Just a bad dream,” he calls. “All good, Pen.”

“Alright, then.”

He waits until her creaky bedroom door closes again, then says, “I’m fine,” and rolls over to put his back between us. “Go back to sleep.”

I see every one of the freckles that dot the curve from his neck to his shoulder. It’s dark, but moonlight and vampire eyes are more than enough. “Right.”

He sighs, and his voice is softer. “I’m fine, Baz. Just go to sleep.”

I lie down on my side of the bed. Because that’s something I’m allowed now. That’s something I have, a designated side of the bed we share. I’m not his nemesis or his roommate, I’m his boyfriend. His partner.

I can’t bear to sleep back to back, so I lie face up and try not to turn my head and count those damn freckles. I’ve still never attempted to kiss them all. I want to. It would probably take hours.

I close my eyes and listen to him breathe. It’s the closest I’m going to get to sleeping tonight.

I’m not sure how much time passes before my mobile phone buzzes on the bedside table. It makes a horrible noise on the wood, and I jump. “Christ,” I mutter, twisting to the side to grab it and silence it. I do that now, swear like a Normal. It’s all Snow’s fault.

Snow.

The text awaiting me is from him. I slide open the message, my heart in my throat. Did I really fuck up this badly?

— _i’m sorry_

Oh.

— _Are you alright?_

_—idk. i had a bad dream._

_—Yes,_ I type. _Is there a reason you’re texting about it instead of just rolling over and speaking to me?_

I risk a glance in his direction. He’s got a hand buried in his hair, tugging.

— _you said i could, if speaking felt too hard. you said i could text even if we were sat right next to each other_

He’s right, I did.

— _Do you want to tell me about the dream?_

_—no_   
_—idk_   
_—i don’t even really remember the details_   
_—i think the mage was there_   
_—i woke up earlier and i was thinking about ebb. i couldn’t help it. so maybe i was dreaming about… you know_   
_—that night_

My heart clenches. That night. The worst night of his life, to be sure. A night that still tortures him years later.

— _I want to hold you._

I can’t think of anything else to say. There are no words I can speak to take away his pain.

— _sometimes_ _i think there’s no way you’re not going to leave_

_—What?_

_—i’m still a mess. even when i’m trying my bloody hardest_

_—Simon, we’ve had this conversation already. Countless times._

_—yeah_

**Simon**

I don’t know why I keep doing this. I don’t know why I have to make it so hard for him to love me.

I guess I’m still not sure why he wants to. And usually I’m better at pushing those thoughts aside, but I’m tired and my head is full of loss and loneliness tonight.

— _I’m not going anywhere, Simon. If you need to hear it again, I’ll say it again. But I mean it every time._

_—remember how you asked if i wanted a list?_

_—Yes. I remember._

_—well i think i do. for real_

He sighs. I don’t blame him.

But I can hear the soft pats of his fingertips against the glass of his phone screen. I wait with bated breath.

— _The number one reason is because you’re you. I just love who you are. I always have, even when I also kind of hated you. I told you it’s not a science and I wasn’t being evasive. I don’t have a lot of experience with love as I’ve only ever fallen for one person, but it wasn’t a decision. I didn’t have a choice in the matter._

I shove my mobile under my pillow and roll over to press up against him. I thunk my forehead against his shoulder, and he wraps his long arms around me.

“My head’s well fucked,” I whisper.

“I know. It’s alright.”

“I killed the Mage, Baz. I did that.”

He strokes my sweat-damp hair up off my forehead. “You didn’t mean to. And he deserved it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“My mother would still be here if not for him.”

My stomach drops. “I’m sorry. I know. I’m sorry.”

“He killed the goatherd in cold blood. He would’ve done the same to Wellbelove.”

I nod, squeezing my eyes shut.

“He used you. You were just a child, and he took advantage of you. That’s unforgivable, Simon. You’re not allowed to feel guilty anymore.”

My throat is tight. “Everyone leaves me.”

Merlin, I’m fucking pathetic.

“That’s not true. Bunce is still here. And so am I.” His arm is draped across my back, his fingers running up and down the bumps of my spine. “Look how fast she came to check up on you tonight.”

“Yeah.”

“Did I ever tell you that when you and I first got together she gave me the big sister talk?”

I frown. “She’s not my sister. And I’m technically older than her.”

“She’s your sister,” Baz says resolutely. “And she told me she’d spell my bollocks off if I ever hurt you.”

I think about that a moment, then burst out laughing. “I reckon she would, too.”

“I have absolutely zero doubt that she was being completely sincere. Not that it matters. I’d rather spell my own bollocks off than leave you.”

I nuzzle into his shoulder, smiling, feeling stupid for letting all my insecurities rear their ugly heads. “Baz?”

“Hm?”

“Do you ever miss our room?”

“At Watford?”

I nod.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeats. “This room is better. Everything about life is better now than it was then. I’m not particularly nostalgic for—”

“Do you miss my magic?” I blurt out.

I guess one more insecurity wanted a go.

He sits up then, so I do too. Even with my head all jumbled and my stomach in knots, it’s not lost on me how fit he looks without a shirt on.

“Do you miss it?” he asks. His hair is falling on his shoulders. I wish I’d just attack-snogged him instead of trying to talk about my sodding feelings. My mouth is much better at kissing than it is at making words.

I shrug, which I know drives him mental, but I don’t have a good answer. “I was never any good at it.”

He stares at me for a bloody long time before he speaks. Every word comes out careful and measured. “I think when you still had your magic, things were easier for you. Not because of the magic itself, but because you had this driving purpose. You were working towards a goal. Now you’re not, and I think that’s difficult for you. Ever since you were eleven you had these huge expectations dropped on you. Your whole adolescence was spent in the pursuit of something easily defined and physically tangible, and now that you don’t have that, you feel lost.” He pauses. “Would you agree?”

I shrug again. “Yeah.”

“So I guess my answer is… yes. And no.” He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “I miss a feeling of certainty for you. I miss whatever security magic gave you. I don’t miss you going off. I don’t miss having to wonder every day if it was going to be the last day you came back to our room in one piece. Or came back at all.”

I look down at my hands. “Right.”

“It doesn’t define you,” he says softly. “It never did. Not for the people who care about you. But it’s okay to miss it.”

“Yeah.” I run my fingers through my hair, yanking roughly on the tangles. “Christ, I need a haircut.”

“You don’t.” He tugs on a curl. “It looks good long.”

I look at him for a moment - then tackle him backwards so suddenly he nearly falls off the bed. I feel my teeth grind against his lip. He swears against my mouth and I think I must be a little deranged because it makes my stomach swoop. He brings a hand around to the back of my neck and grabs me, and it’s exactly the roughness I need to pull me out of my self pity.

**Baz**

Simon Snow is going to be the death of me.

He kisses me like it’s the last thing we’ll ever do. If I have to die, this wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

I’m not sure if I’m allowed to be as aroused as I am. I’m not unaware that he’s using this impassioned snog as a distraction. Or a palate cleanser. But I don’t care. He’s lying on top of me. His spit is in my mouth. His elbows are bracketing my head. He’s all around me, enveloping me completely in the scent and heat of him, and I don’t reckon I’ve ever felt so profoundly queer in all my life.

I let my fingers wander over the back of him, and honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he told me later that he hadn't even noticed. I press my hand to the small of his back. The tips of my fingers brush the waistband of his boxers and Crowley help me, I can’t stop myself sliding my palm down and cupping his glorious bottom overtop of his pants.

He notices that. I can tell because he makes a little noise. But he doesn’t stop me, so I decide to be greedy. I squeeze.

He pulls away from the kiss. I pull away from groping his ass. (Reluctantly. It’s really a rather spectacular one.)

“Sorry,” I say.

He’s breathing heavily. There’s so much life pulsing in his veins.

“I have a purpose, you know,” he says. “I have goals.”

“You know I wasn’t saying—”

“I know,” he interrupts. “But I just needed you to know. Right now my goal is just to be a less terrible boyfriend.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he claps his hand down over it. “I know you’re gonna say I’m not. But things were so bad before, and I never want to go back to that.” His voice goes softer. “I care about this.”

I kiss the palm that’s pressed to my lips and he lifts it.

“Also I think I want to get a job.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

He nods. “I need things to do. I have too much time to think while you and Penny are off at uni being geniuses.” He frowns. “Or… I guess I could go back to school.”

“Do you want to go back to school?”

“I dunno. It would definitely keep me busy, but… I have no idea what I want to be.”

“You have time,” I say gently. “You can go back next year. Or the year after that.”

“I s’pose.”

I rub the pad of my finger against the crease between his brows. “I think getting a job is a brilliant idea.”

He beams at me. I would very much like for him to kiss me again, but I think the moment has passed for him.

Then he says, “You grabbed my arse.”

“Cracking observation, Snow. You are ceaselessly astute.”

“And you’re a twat.”

I can’t help smiling. “Perhaps I am.”

“You are.” He drops his face down without warning and kisses me, licking the inside of my bottom lip, and the surprise intimacy of it makes my fangs pop. He doesn’t pull away, and I don’t have the fortitude to deny myself his mouth. I’m a constant disappointment to myself.

He shifts his weight on top of me, and I’m afraid to believe it’s because he’s aroused by my teeth, but there’s something hard digging into my groin and his skin is suddenly warmer. I can feel his heart against my chest.

My own chest is heaving. He drags the tip of his tongue against the point of a fang. I need to tell him not to do that. It would be only too easy to break his skin.

I can’t do it. I can’t tell him to stop. I don’t want him to stop.

He does it again. I make a small, humiliating noise. I feel like I’m melting. My arms are splayed out against the mattress on either side of me. I don’t trust my hands right now. Every carnal, animalistic urge I’ve got is telling me I’ll perish if I can’t have him this very second.

But I think he needs this. I think he needs space to explore me and whatever I make him feel, without the pressure of it leading to more.

“Baz.”

“Yes?” I don’t sound like myself. My voice is raspy.

“I don’t know.” He shifts again and it’s torture, the briefest hint of friction. “Is this weird?”

“Why would it be?”

“I dunno.” He pulls an errant strand of hair out of my mouth. “I’m licking your teeth.”

“Snow, you could lick my knees and I’d thank you.”

“So you like it?”

I risk lifting my hands and rubbing them up his arms and then back down to hold him at the elbows. “That would be a profound understatement.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I’m mad for you,” I tell him. “It’s pretty simple.”

“Do you want to lick my knees?”

“Yes.”

“What about my teeth?”

“I’ll lick whatever the bloody hell you want me to lick, Simon.”

He sits up then, and looks down at me. I can picture all too well doing this with no clothes on either of us. I’ve fantasized about having him in every position imaginable, but seeing it modelled like this, so close to the real thing, it’s maddening. His curls are hanging down his forehead into his eyes. His stomach is soft. When I reach up and run my palm over it, there’s a fleshiness that gives a bit under my fingers.

I love it. I love that I never have to see him looking thin and mean ever again. He never has to spend time in a place where no one cares for him, where he doesn’t have access to the things he needs to be safe and healthy.

He looks down to where I’ve dipped my thumb into his navel.

“I’ve got a bit pudgy, haven’t I?”

I prop myself up on my elbows. “You haven’t. But it wouldn’t matter if you had. You’re gorgeous always.”

“Not as much as you.”

I scoff. “That’s absurd.”

“No it’s not. You’re proper fit. You’ve got thighs.”

“I’m fairly certain you do as well.”

“Yeah but they’re not footballer ones.”

I would be embarrassed by the thrill I get from Snow complimenting my appearance if I didn’t already have a well established pattern of hanging off his every word. Secretly, of course. Icy indifference was a defense mechanism that served me well.

I bend my knees and lift my footballer thighs, forcing him to pitch forward against my chest again. He splutters but I ignore it, hooking an arm around the back of his neck. “I don’t think you want to hear everything I love about your body, Snow. We’d be here for days.”

“Not bothered. I’ve nowhere else to be.”

“I have class tomorrow,” I remind him. “And you’ve got job hunting to do.”

He grumbles. “I forgot that getting a job means I have to actually, like… look for one.”

Much to my chagrin, he gets off of me then and lies down on his back. The loss of his warmth is so dismaying that I roll over to press into his side. It’s probably too much, but we’ve been doing a lot of things lately that would have previously been too much, and it’s been working out smashingly.

“I’ll help you,” I say. “We can go out after my class?”

He smiles widely, the goofy one that I love so much. “Really?”

“Of course. Any excuse to spend more time with you.” I nuzzle my face against his ribs. It’s extremely idiotic, but it’s honest, and that’s what we’ve promised each other.

He giggles, actually giggles, and wraps his arms around me. “You’re the best.”

“Yes,” I agree. “Quite.”

“I’m going to sleep now. But you’re giving me a rain check on listing what you love about me.”

I nod, leaning up to kiss the tip of his nose. “Goodnight, Snow.”

“Simon.”

“Goodnight Simon.”

He smiles. “Night Baz.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Simon**

Baz kisses my forehead before he leaves for his early morning class. It’s our thing. Or— one of our things. We have lots of them now. But I like that one a lot. It feels like a grown up thing, like a thing a husband would do to his wife.

Not that Baz and I are married. And not that I’m the wife.

I catch myself in daft thoughts like this all the time. I was just thinking that I like when Baz kisses me on my forehead because it feels boring and domestic and safe and settled and all the things I never thought I’d live long enough to have, but then my stupid brain goes and ruins it by making me feel weird about being gay. Or… whatever I am. In a relationship with a bloke.

I know it doesn’t work like that. There isn’t a man and a woman in a relationship between two men. Obviously.

I’m really bad at being gay.

Actually, I was pretty bad at being straight, wasn’t I? Maybe I’m just bad at dating.

I don’t think dating is the right word for what I’m doing with Baz. It sounds so casual. So impermanent. It doesn’t fit with forehead kisses and the level of hell we’ve been through and back together. Dating doesn’t feel like whispered I love yous as we fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Actually, in a lot of ways it feels like we _are_ married, like we skipped right over the dating bit to land in the realm of old married couple. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I’ve never even touched him properly, and I sure as hell haven’t let him touch me. He grabbed my arse last night and I nearly had an aneurysm. Not that I didn’t like it. I think I did. It was just so overwhelming.

And whenever he touches me, or gets a stiffy when we’re kissing, or looks at me in that hungry way he sometimes does, I remember that I’m really bad at being gay. Or whatever I am. And I’m guessing Baz isn’t, because he isn’t bad at anything. And I already fall short in so many other ways, I’m not sure if I could handle cocking up at sex.

Now I’m thinking about sex with Baz. Again. For a thing that feels so scary, I sure do think about it a lot.

The thoughts are never specific. I don’t know enough about sex to have detailed fantasies, I just know that my body reacts a certain way when I think about Baz without his clothes. When I think about the way he looks, and the way he looks at me.

Lately no matter what I’m thinking about to begin with, it somehow always leads back to naked Baz. I’ve tried not thinking about it, but that doesn’t seem to work anymore. I reckon it’s easier when I’m miserable. When I’m happy my thoughts just slosh around all over the place, spilling over the edges of my self control.

I hear someone banging about in the kitchen. It must be Penny. Baz never eats breakfast, and he always sleeps in as late as he possibly can. He just throws on his clothes, spells his hair neat, necks a cup of pig juice and goes. He’s probably been gone a while judging by how long I’ve been laid here like a slug thinking about him.

I haul myself up, pull on a shirt and head out to the kitchen. If Penny is cooking, that’s where I want to be.

“Morning, Simon,” she says as I pad in. “I should’ve known you’d arrive the instant I pulled out the frying pan.”

I grin, draping myself against the back of her. “Don’t I always?”

“Make the tea please. Do you want eggs?”

“I want all the eggs,” I say as I grab the kettle to fill it up.

“Do you want toast?”

“I want all the toast.”

“Do you want beans?” she asks.

I lean against the counter by the sink. “Pen.”

She turns around to look at me. Her glasses are half slid down her nose. They’re not the witchy ones she used to wear; they’ve got a slightly more modern shape, but they’re still too big for her face. And they’re still purple. “What?”

“I’m going to say yes to whatever food you offer me.”

She nods. “Right. Can you do the toast?”

I burn the toast, but a pile of beans can hide a world of mistakes. Penny’s eggs are perfect, although truthfully, I never met an egg I didn’t like.

We sit at the kitchen table like proper adults. When I’m alone I always eat on the sofa. Baz always chastises me about the crumbs, but he also always hoovers them up for me. Maybe because he knows I won’t, and he doesn’t like mess. Penny’s just so used to it now, I’m not sure she even notices.

I’m a lucky bloke. I’ve got the two best roommates in the universe. The two best mates in the universe.

I don’t realize I’m smiling at her until she points it out. “You look goofy. Like someone cast something on you. Or… actually, you kind of look high.” She narrows her eyes. “Are you high, Simon?”

I shrug. “I’m happy.”

“Ugh.” She crinkles her nose.

“What?”

“Did you and Baz have a particularly… satisfying morning?”

I nearly choke on a bean. “Jesus, Pen.”

“It’s fine if you did, I just really don’t want to hear about it.”

“We didn’t!” I splutter. “I can be happy for reasons that aren’t… that.”

“You can. But you’ve got a look on your face. And you’re a boy.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

“You know I love you, Simon, and you’re a very nice boy, but you’re still a boy. Boys usually only have _that_ look on when they’ve—”

“Stop,” I cut her off, pointing my fork at her. “For someone who’s always going on about misogyny, you’re being awfully sexist right now.”

She shrugs. “You two have seemed very… touchy lately.”

I can feel my face going red. Penny and I don’t talk about this stuff. Baz and I don’t even really talk about this stuff.

“I’m trying to be a better boyfriend,” I mumble, shovelling an overflowing forkful of egg and bean into my gob.

“Ugh, Simon, please.” Her nose is crinkled again. “I don’t need details.”

“We didn’t have sex!” I exclaim. “I’m a virgin! We both are!”

She looks stunned, but I’m too embarrassed to enjoy it.

“Oh.” It’s so rare that Penny is lost for words. “Oh.”

I should drop it there, but she looks so surprised. Why is she so surprised? It is really _that_ weird?

“What?” I say.

She shakes her head. “Nothing. I just… I would’ve thought you and Agatha…”

“No.” I look down at my plate. “No. We didn’t even kiss that much.” I look back up at her. “I think you were right. She didn’t really like me that much.”

“You didn’t like her that much either,” she says bluntly.

“I thought I did. I wanted to.”

She reaches over the table and pats my arm. “I know. It’s okay.” She pulls her arm back and takes a drink of her tea and a tidy bite of egg and chews slowly and thoughtfully. I’m aware that I’m staring at her, but I feel acutely judged right now, and I’m hoping she’ll say something to put me at ease.

But when she speaks again, she says, “But you haven’t with Baz either?”

I could tell her to piss off and mind her own business, I suppose, but I never say things like that to Penny. And as exposed as I feel, it might not be the worst idea to talk about it with a person I trust who doesn’t actually have any investment in what I do or don’t do with my willy.

I shake my head.

“Huh,” she says. “Not even in the beginning? Before…”

“Before I fell into a depression and couldn’t drag my arse off the sofa and had to be half drunk just to get through the day?”

She frowns. “Simon.”

I shrug. “I’m aware I’ve been a shit boyfriend. That’s why I’m trying harder now.”

“You don’t have to have sex to be a good boyfriend,” she informs me matter of factly. “And I’m sure if you asked him, Baz would say the same thing.”

I restrain myself from rolling my eyes. “I know, Pen. The wanting isn’t the issue.” I have to look down at my food again. Her eyes are too big and brown, like a very perceptive dairy cow or something. “It’s not like with Agatha,” I say quietly. “I like him. I… I want him.”

All trace of her former disgust with discussing my sex life appears to have vanished. “Okay. What’s the issue, then?”

I look at her helplessly. “I don’t… know.”

“Hmm.”

That’s all she says. Just, hmm.

“Do you think I’m gay?” I blurt out.

“I think you would know better than me, Simon.”

I sigh, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. “I don’t know anything.”

“That’s okay, though,” she says. “It’s a big thing, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I yank a hand through my hair and sit up again. Then a thought occurs to me. “Wait, have you…?”

She immediately looks sheepish.

“With Micah?” I ask.

“Yeah, of course. He’s the only person I’ve ever dated. You know that.”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t have to be dating someone to sleep with them.”

“Yes,” she agrees, a bit huffy. She hates being corrected. “But I wouldn’t.”

“Right. Sorry.”

She finishes her breakfast and I finish mine. When she gets up from the table, she takes my dishes and carries them to the sink to start the washing up. She’s so much better at this shite than me. I would’ve probably just left them on the table.

I stay sat here drinking my tea and doing the thing I’m worst at: thinking. I really wish I could remember how I managed to avoid it for so many years.

I’m thinking about Penny and Micah. Not in a pervy way, I’m not picturing them together. Well. Not _really_.

Okay, I am. But not because I’m pervy. I guess I’ve just built this whole thing up in my head so much that it feels like some kind of mythical act. But it isn’t. People do it all the time. Penny’s done it. And she probably didn’t even have a mental breakdown about it.

“What was it like?” I blurt.

She turns off the water and turns around. “You’re not seriously asking for details?”

“No. Not details. Not really. Just… I dunno. Was it scary?”

She leans back against the counter. She’s wearing her usual skirt and knee sock combo, so she must have a class to get to at some point today. She always wears joggers or leggings now when she’s hanging out at the flat. “A bit, I guess.”

“Did it feel good?”

She seems to have given up being embarrassed or reluctant to talk to me about this. “It was nice enough. Hurt a bit the first time.”

Even just hearing that makes my heart race.

“But it was okay. I can’t say I quite understand why so many people are so obsessed with it, but it’s not like I regret doing it.” She shrugs.

“Even though you’re not together anymore?” I ask quietly.

Her face goes all soft. “Oh Simon. Is that what this is about?”

I look down at the dregs in my mug. “I dunno.”

“I thought you and Baz were good.”

“We are. Never been better.” I scrub my hand down over my face. “I’m just trying to figure out why I’m scared of it.”

She comes back to the table and pulls her chair up right beside me. “You know, I don’t think Micah and I really liked each other enough in the end, either. I mean, he was clever and kind and cute enough, but there was never… I don’t know. It was never really exciting. We broke up because we weren’t right for each other. He figured it out before me, which is maddening if I’m honest, but we never had what you and Baz have.”

I can’t help smiling at that. “You reckon?”

She rolls her eyes. “No one has ever loved anyone the way that boy loves you, Simon.”

My grin only gets wider. “What about you?”

“Different kind of love. I’m talking about romantic love.”

I chuckle, nodding. I knew that, I just wanted to tease her a little.

“For a while I was worried about the two of you,” she admits.

“I was too. But never because I didn’t love him. I felt like I loved him too much, if that makes sense.”

“It doesn’t.” Penny really isn’t one to mince words. I’ve always loved that about her. I never have to wonder if she means what she says. She’s a pathological truth teller, just like me.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess it doesn’t. I guess that’s my problem. My feelings don’t make sense.”

“You deserve to be happy.” She pats my knee. “Try not to think your way out of it. Feelings are messy and sometimes irrational. Honestly, sometimes they’re just plain rubbish.”

“But what do I _do_?”

“About sex?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, Nicks and Slick, Simon, I haven’t the foggiest. I’m not some kind of sex therapist just because I did it a few times two years ago.”

“Yeah but you’re meant to always know what to do. And then tell me.”

She smiles. “We’re not in school anymore. This is real life now. I won’t always have the answers.”

It would be nice if I was well adjusted enough to let that be the end of the conversation, if I could let her have those poignant, bittersweet closing words. But I’m me, so of course, I don’t.

“Can’t you spell me or something?”

She looks proper horrified. “Spell you? Into intercourse that you don’t feel comfortable having? Are you actually insane?”

“Don’t say intercourse,” I mutter. My face is hot. “Just… spell some sense into me, for Merlin’s sake. For _my_ sake.”

Her arms are folded over her chest now, and she’s shaking her head at me. “You really didn’t learn anything in seven and a half years at Watford, did you?”

“I did. Just nothing about magic.”

She smiles at me, then leans in to kiss my forehead. “I have to get to class.”

I let out a long, deep sigh. “Yeah, alright then.”

“If you’re well and truly worried about this, you know what you have to do, right?”

“No, what?”

She stands up and dusts her skirt off. “Talk to Baz.”

**Baz**

Snow is waiting for me when I get out of my lecture, stood on the pavement outside the building with a giant smile on his face. I’m nearly bowled over by the sheer force of my affection. It takes a considerable amount of restraint on my part not to grab him and squeeze.

“This is a surprise,” I say, one eyebrow arched.

He looks beautiful today. Maybe even more than usual, if that’s possible. His cheeks are rosy with the cold October air, his hair curling in perfect bronze ringlets. His freckles have faded a bit now that the summer sun is hidden behind autumn clouds more often than not, but the moles still call to my lips like targets. I wish we were at home so I could take aim.

He shrugs. “I fancied some fresh air.”

My heart is nearly bursting. Fresh air looks good on him. “I’m very happy to see you.”

The smile he gives me at that is shy. “Yeah, you too,” he mumbles.

“So,” I say. Awkwardly. I’m genuinely thrown off my game by how fluttery I feel. Six months ago Simon Snow meeting me after class unannounced would have been absolutely unheard of. “What’s the plan? Still want to go job hunting?”

He shrugs again. He’s wearing the same jacket he’s had for years. The same trainers. I wish he wasn’t so opposed to letting me spend money on him. The things I could dress this boy in…

“Baz.”

My eyes snap back up to his face. “What?”

He’s smirking. “You were staring.”

“I was not.”

“Pretty sure you were.”

I feel myself pouting, but can’t actually argue again. I was definitely staring. “Are we finding you employment or not?”

“Yes please,” he says cheerily. “Also lunch. I’m starving.”

-

Simon Snow used to hold my hand. After everything that happened with the Mage and losing his magic, he clung to me for weeks. For months. His fingers were always wrapped around mine, warm and squeezing too tight. I got used to it, to never having to reach for him because he always reached for me first.

He doesn’t anymore. We only hold hands in bed.

It’s not something I think I have any right to miss. He wasn’t holding my hand because he wanted to hold my hand. He held my hand because his world was crumbling beneath him. He was hanging on for dear life. I should be happy he doesn’t feel the need for that any longer. And I am. But I miss holding his hand.

It’s not like it ever happened in public anyway. He didn’t really leave the flat much until America, and almost never with me. So it’s not like I have anything to miss as we’re walking down the pavement side by side, each of our hands jammed into our respective coat pockets to keep them warm. There’s no precedent for strolling down the street with our fingers laced together.

I just really want to hold his hand. I’m positively overflowing with wanting him.

There’s a couple ahead of us, a man and a woman. They’ve got their arms around each other’s backs like they haven’t a care in the world. I’m unspeakably jealous. They’re chatting and laughing and at one point they even stopped to kiss. Right there on the pavement. Like they weren’t surrounded by other people.

I snuck a side eyed glance at Snow as they did it. He was staring just as hard as I was. I want so desperately to know his thoughts. Does he ever think about how much easier it would be for him if he’d fallen for a woman? Is that part of his reluctance to touch me?

I’ve never really felt ashamed of my queerness, not even when my father acted like it was a stain on his legacy. I had bigger things to worry about, I suppose. Vampire-shaped things. Liking boys didn’t seem so bad compared to digging my teeth into the furry wriggling bodies of tomb-dwelling rodents and fantasizing about draining my classmates.

I’ve had a long time to come to terms. Simon hasn’t. I wish I knew how to talk to him about that.

**Simon**

There’s a couple necking in front of Baz and me as they walk, and I can’t stop gawking.

They’re all over each other. The bloke has his hand tucked into the back pocket of the girl’s jeans. I kind of want to be annoyed, but instead it’s making my stomach feel funny. It’s making my heart beat faster.

I bet Baz is annoyed. I turn to look at him, thinking maybe we’ll exchange a look that indicates our judgment of their display, but his eyes are locked intently on the couple. The muscles in his jaw are flexing like he’s clenching his teeth, and he doesn’t even notice I’m watching him. It makes me shiver.

I’m running on instinct and jitters when I reach out and yank a little too hard on the sleeve of his coat. It pulls him up short and he looks at me, bewildered. “What?”

“Uh.” I glance around us quickly. “Let’s—” I jerk my head in the direction of a random café a few shops down the street. “Buy me lunch?”

He looks incredulous. “There?”

I don’t blame him for being confused. It’s a tiny shop that probably doesn’t sell much more than hot drinks and pastries, but I was desperate. Desperate not to walk behind that couple and think about why it was making me feel so bloody weird.

I shrug. “I could use some tea, couldn’t you?”

He looks really tired today, probably because I woke him last night with my nightmare and then proceeded to keep him up even longer. I don’t regret it, though. The snogging was nice. And the talking. And the teeth licking, which is fucking ridiculous and embarrassing but… yeah. It was nice. It was hot, actually. Baz is really hot. Even when he looks exhausted and confused as to why his boyfriend is acting like a complete numpty.

I don’t think about reaching up and touching his face, I just do it, stroking my thumb along the line of his cheekbone before letting my hand fall back down to my side.

I see his own hand sort of start to twitch in my direction, but then he stops it. “Alright, then,” he says. “Let’s go in. Who knows, maybe they’re hiring.”

**Baz**

When we get to the shop, Snow holds the door open for me. It’s not lost on me how pathetic I am for loving that.

“I can’t be a barista,” he says under his breath, leaning in close to me as I walk by him.

“Why not?” I’m grinning a little. I can’t help it. He’d look so unbearably adorable in a little apron behind the counter trying to learn how to work the espresso machine.

“Because.”

“Oh, right. Because.” I bump my shoulder into his and he retaliates by reaching up and tugging on my hair.

I cock my eyebrow. He flushes.

My gums itch. His blood flows so freely under that tawny skin, and now I know he has some kind of cheeky association with hair pulling. I’ll definitely be remembering that.

There’s only one other person in the shop, but it’s nice. It’s got a cozy feel to it. I could picture myself doing schoolwork at one of the tables in the corner while Snow served the odd customer who wandered in.

“Baz.”

I turn towards his voice, wholly unsurprised to discover him with his nose practically pressed against the glass of the small pastry case beside the cash register.

“They’ve got scones,” he announces.

“What self respecting café wouldn’t have scones?” I step up beside him. “They won’t be as good as Pritchard’s,” I say quietly.

“No one’s could. But it doesn’t matter. I’m starved.”

The girl behind the counter isn’t paying us any mind. She looks to be about our age, and all her attention is focused on the white iPhone in her hand.

“Go find us a table,” I instruct Snow. “You want coffee or tea?”

“Tea, please. And—”

“I know,” I interrupt. “You’re starving. I’ve got it.”

He smiles widely, and for the briefest moment I think he’s going to lean in and give me a peck on the cheek.

He doesn’t, of course.

I order us each a tea and half of the available selection of pastries for him. As expected, they don’t have proper food here, not even sandwiches. I still don’t understand why he chose this shop if he’s as hungry as he claims, quaint as it may be. I know for a fact there’s a Nando’s just a block from here.

The barista looks at me like I'm a freak when I order enough scones for four people. She’s got blue eyeshadow that does nothing for her complexion and a ring in her nose. I smile at her and say, “My mate over there is like a human garbage disposal.”

“Oi!” he shouts. I hadn’t thought he’d be able to hear me, but the girl actually cracks a tiny smile.

“That’s good, because the food here is a bit rubbish.”

I lean in a little closer to her so I can be quiet enough that Snow won’t hear. “To be honest, he eats so fast I’m not sure he ever really tastes what he’s shoving in his gob.”

She giggles. My plan is working. Before I can ask her if they’re hiring, Simon appears beside me and slings his arm across my shoulders.

“Whatever this git’s saying, it’s all lies.”

I don’t have a comeback. Snow has slipped his fingers under the collar of my shirt to touch my neck. The barista says something to him and I don’t hear it. I pay for the food and take my tea and follow Simon back to our table.

“I was about to attempt to secure you a job,” I say, wrapping my fingers around the warmth of the mug.

He ignores me completely. “You called me your mate.”

“Um. Yes?”

He frowns. “We’re not mates.”

“No, but I—”

He doesn’t let me get the words out, grabbing the front of my coat and pulling me into a kiss. At first I think he’s cross with me and just trying to shut me up, but then he’s opening his mouth and I feel his tongue against mine. A bit of my tea has spilled out over my fingers, but I barely feel it.

**Simon**

Mates my fucking arse.

**Baz**

I’m breathless when he finally stops kissing me. My lips follow his for a moment or two as he starts to pull away, and I’m sure I look like a complete imbecile, but I’m reeling. I’m swooning.

He sits and takes a long drink of his tea, then hisses at the heat of it. Perhaps he wasn’t as unaffected by the kiss as he wants me to believe.

I nudge his foot gently under the table, and he looks up. “Hm?”

“What was that?” I ask quietly. I don’t want him to think I didn’t love it, because I did. But I also don’t want him feeling the need to kiss me out of some misguided feeling of insecurity.

He shrugs. “A snog, I reckon.”

“Right, but…” I gesture vaguely around the shop.

“Are you not into it?” he asks. “PDA and whatnot.”

I almost choke on my drink. “Are _you_?”

He shrugs. Crowley help me, sometimes I want to rip this boy’s shoulders off. He’s not looking at me, instead focusing intently on the scone he’s picking apart with nervous fingers.

“Simon.”

That gets his attention. He looks up, his expression almost guilty. “What.”

“Did it genuinely bother you that I referred to you as a mate to some random stranger?”

He pops a piece of scone in his mouth, probably to buy himself time.

That’s fine; I’m a very patient man. I can wait.

“I guess it did, yeah,” he says finally.

“Why?”

“Because… because it’s not the truth is it?” He yanks his fingers through his curls, making them frizz out a bit. It’s a surefire sign that his mind is trying to work something out. “We’re more than that, aren’t we?”

I tilt my head to the side incredulously. “Do you even need to ask that?”

“Well… no. No, I s’pose I don’t.” He huffs, then leans across the table so he can speak more quietly. “But you were practically flirting with that barista.”

I have to laugh at that. I just have to. “Snow, I’m gay, remember?”

“I know but—”

“You’re not actually jealous. You can’t be. The phrase ‘I only have eyes for you’ could have been invented for the way I feel about you. I don’t even see anyone else.”

“It’s not that,” he says, though his tone is softer now. “It’s not like I think you fancy her or something. It’s just… you can be kind of flirty with a random bird in a coffee shop because that’s just normal, but because I’m a bloke you have to refer to me as your mate. It’s just…” He grabs at his hair again. “It’s like that couple on the street earlier. I bet they never had to wonder if they were allowed to touch each other in public.”

“Have you been thinking that, Snow? That you’re not allowed to touch me?”

He doesn’t answer me, and I feel my heart break a little.

“Simon.”

“What.”

“Do you want me to introduce you to people as my boyfriend? Explicitly?”

He shrugs. “You don’t have to. If it makes things harder for you.”

I reach across the table and take his hand. “It doesn’t. I’ve known I was gay since I was fourteen. I don’t always advertise it, but I’m not ashamed of it.”

He’s looking at our hands, at how I’ve got mine wrapped around his. He pulls his away, but before my stomach can sink, he intertwines our fingers.

“Simon,” I say softly. “Do you know what internalized homophobia means?”

He huffs. “Piss off, Baz. I’m not an idiot.”

It should probably be worrisome that a statement like that makes me smile. But it does. It feels normal and familiar for us, which is an incredibly welcome feeling right now. “I wouldn’t go _that_ far.”

He kicks me under the table. It only makes my grin widen.

“I’m not ashamed either,” he says. “I don’t care what strangers think of me. If they’ve got a problem, it’s their business, not mine.”

I pull his hand to my mouth and kiss it. “I would love to introduce you as my boyfriend.”

“Sometimes people are wankers, though, yeah? I don’t want anyone saying anything to you. Or trying to hurt you.”

Be still my heart. Not only do I have an incredibly fit man who wants to kiss me in public, he also wants to protect me from homophobic bullies. He’s always been a defender, I shouldn’t be surprised that the instinct remains even after his magic is gone.

He doesn’t need magic to be magical. He doesn’t need magic to be my hero.

“Simon.” I kiss his knuckles again. “I’m a magician. And a vampire. No one’s going to hurt me.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“I’m also a Pitch, in case you’ve forgotten. I’m quite accustomed to people hating me. And I’m just as unbothered by outside opinion as you are.”

“Yeah but that doesn’t mean you _want_ to do stuff in public,” he argues. “Some people aren’t into that. Agatha wasn’t.”

“I’m not Wellbelove.” My voice comes out colder than I mean it to.

“If I'm not allowed to be jealous then neither are you.”

“I’m not jealous,” I say automatically. “I just hate thinking about the two of you together and wish I could go back in time and confess my feelings before you ever started dating her.”

He smirks. “Pretty sure that’s jealousy.”

“Fine, I’m jealous. But I’m the one who’s got you now, and I have no problem with PDA.”

“No problem with it?” He tries to raise one eyebrow, but they both go up. He’s so painfully adorable I can hardly stand it.

“I would like it.” I squeeze his hand. “I _do_ like it.”

“Okay.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “Thanks.” He tugs his hand away from mine and says, “I need this now. I’m still starving.”

I let him have the lay of the pile of pastries before him, leaning back in my chair and sipping my tea as I watch him gorge. I still find myself in disbelief that this gorgeous creature is mine to love.

Simon

Baz always stares at me when I eat. I don’t even feel self conscious about it anymore. But I do feel like this is a habit I should have broken by now, the whole ‘eating like I’ll never see food again’ thing. It’s been years since I had to worry about going hungry. I’m an adult now. I can take care of myself. I don’t need to rely on anyone else to do it for me.

Except, that’s not really true, is it? I still don’t contribute much. I don’t have a job. I don’t even clean the house much. I can’t cook, I can’t do magic. I couldn’t even hack uni. I’m pretty well useless.

But I don’t want to be anymore. That’s why we’re sat here at a café instead of on the sofa at home. I’m going to find a job. I’m going to contribute. I’m going to learn how to take care of myself.

I eat my food as fast as I’ve ever eaten anything, wanting to capitalize on my little burst of motivation while I’ve still got it. Baz pretends to be disgusted, but I know he isn’t really.

“Where’s the fire, Snow?”

“Shut up.” I drain my mug to wash away the bits of scone stuck in my teeth. “I have to do something.”

He says, “What?” but I’ve already pushed my chair back and stood up, my eyes fixed on the barista girl who’s gone back to scrolling on her phone.

“Be right back,” I say to Baz, and walk towards the counter.

She doesn’t look up when I get there, not until I clear my throat. She’s got long nails except for the ones on the index and middle fingers, and her black nail polish is chipped. For some reason the first thing I can think of is what Agatha would have to say about it if she were here.

Actually, if Baz were to notice, he’d probably take the piss, too. He gets his nails done sometimes. He cares a lot about how he looks, and he’s constantly dragging me for not giving two fucks about my own appearance. I mean, I care a bit. I still want him to like looking at me. But I don’t know anything about fashion or any of that shite, and it’s not like Penny’s going to teach me. Baz has begged me on multiple occasions to let him buy me a whole new wardrobe, but I refuse to wear silk florals and trousers with creases or whatever poncey nonsense he’d try to put me in. I could never pull that off. He does, and beautifully. It looks right on him. But I’ll stick with jeans and joggers.

Although, I guess I should’ve worn something more smart just for today, at least. I’m trying to find a job after all.

I’m stalling inside my own head, thinking about things I don’t care about because my confidence vanished the moment the barista lifted her gaze to my face.

She taps one of her short-nailed fingers against the counter. “Can I get you something?”

“Um.”

She lifts one eyebrow up, just like Baz does. Her hair is orange, but not a natural kind. It’s not ginger, it’s proper orange, like a tangerine or a pumpkin or something.

“I can’t believe you ate all that food,” she says when it becomes clear that I can’t find my words. “You didn’t even leave any for your boyfriend.”

My heart kicks against my ribs, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling. Actually, it’s a really nice one. I guess she saw us snogging, which should probably embarrass me, but I like how she says the word like it’s normal. It makes me _feel_ normal, which I really like.

I smile. “He doesn’t eat much. And when he does it’s usually meat that’s undercooked.”

She crinkles her nose. “Meat is vile.”

“Are you vegetarian?”

“Vegan.”

“Oh,” I say. “Wow. I could never do that. I love food too much.”

“There’s lots of food that doesn’t come from animals. Which is something I’m currently trying to convince my girlfriend of, but she’s being stubborn about cheese.”

My chest blooms with warmth, but I ignore it. It’s normal, we’re both normal. “Well cheese is brilliant, so I don’t blame her.”

I end up standing at the counter chatting away with this person whose name I don’t even know for ten minutes before Baz wanders over and gingerly presses his palm to my lower back.

“Alright?” I ask softly, my insides melting at the intimacy of his touch.

He nods. I’m sure he’s wondering what the hell I’m doing. I’m not known for being talkative, especially with strangers.

“You ready to go?” he asks.

“Oh, uh. Yeah, I just—” I turn back to the barista. “I was wondering if you’ve got, like, an application form I can fill in or something.”

She doesn’t actually answer my question. “What’s your name?”

“Simon.”

“Are you in school?”

“No.”

“Do you have experience working in retail?”

“Um. No.”

“Any other kind of employment experience?”

My stomach is twisting itself into knots. “Not exactly.”

She looks at me for a long moment, sizing me up, no doubt. Then she reaches under the counter and hands me a piece of paper and a pen. “Fill this out.”

Baz doesn’t let go of me. It’s like he can sense how nervous I am, and he’s holding me through it. I love him so bloody much.

I fill out the form, which is mostly just my personal information like birthday and address and all that. I slide it back to her and she holds out her hand. I take it and we shake and she says, “You’re hired.”

“Oh. I— really? Just like that?” I look at Baz and then back at her. “No interview?”

She shrugs. “My mum owns the shop. She lets me run it. I’m bored as shit here by myself. I could use some company, and you seem alright. At least I know you’re not going to give me shit for being gay.”

“Wow,” Baz murmurs. “It would seem your charms never cease, Snow.”

“You lot are cute,” she says.

I’m about to thank her when Baz says, “Yeah. We are.”

I nudge his chest in playful reproach with my shoulder.

“Bet you didn’t think sucking face would help you find a job, eh?” She winks.

I hide my face in my hands, but she doesn’t give me much time to be embarrassed.

“I’m Poppy, by the way. And I’ll text you your schedule after I figure it out with my mum, yeah? It’ll probably just be part time.”

“That’s fine,” I say. My cheeks are still burning. “I just need something to do that’s not sitting on my sofa feeling sorry for myself.”

Baz squeezes around my lower back.

“You can feel sorry for yourself in a shit coffee shop instead.” She smirks. “At least you’ll be getting paid.”

When we leave, I make sure to look up at the sign above the door. I’m technically employed at a shop I don’t know the name of.

I laugh when I see it. It’s called Poppy’s.


	8. Chapter 8

**Baz**

Snow comes home from his first shift looking exhausted and smelling like coffee. I’m sat on the sofa with my legs tucked up beside me, doing this week’s reading for economic theory. He flops himself down half on top of me, sighing dramatically.

“My whole body hurts.”

I close my textbook and drop it gently to the floor. I doubt he’s going to let me get anything done right now, but I’m not complaining. “Did you do some kickboxing after work?”

“Piss off, my feet are in agony. I’m not used to standing in one place for eight hours.”

“Ah yes, that old physical endurance challenge: standing.”

He turns over a bit, pushing my legs apart to fit between them so he can lie on me. Now I’m _definitely_ not complaining.

“Don’t make fun of me,” he whines. “I’m not strong and fit like I used to be.”

I reach up to push his curls off his forehead. As soon as I pull my hand away, they spring back into place. It’s delightful. “You’re plenty fit, love,” I murmur. “There’s no one fitter.”

I expect some kind of argument, but he sighs again. This time the sound is a contented one, like he’s as happy to be here with me as I am to have him. He slips his hand up under my shirt and starts rubbing my stomach.

I’ve never told him how much I love that. I’m not even sure he knows how often he does it. I think it may be a comfort thing for him, which is a thought that thrills me, that touching me could bring him comfort, even if isn’t a conscious action.

Eventually my eyes drift shut. My entire body is buzzing with warmth and endorphins. He smells like espresso and butter and blood and his head is on my chest and his palm keeps rubbing back and forth over my stomach and if we never moved from this spot again I would die a happy man.

“So how was your first day of work?” I ask dreamily, when I finally remember that today was a big day for him and I’d be a pretty terrible boyfriend if I didn’t ask for the details.

“Good, I guess.” He sounds distracted, but I’m too blissed out to open my eyes and investigate. “Poppy is well cool. She doesn’t even care that I suck at the job.”

“You don’t suck,” I say automatically. “It’s your first day, you’re learning. No one is good at something like that right away.”

“You are,” he counters. “You’re good at everything.”

“Not everyone can be as flawless as me,” I drawl, grinning when he pinches my side.

“I hate you.”

“Love you too,” I murmur in response. His hand is so warm and he’s making me feel so good.

“Baz?”

“Hm?”

I hear him swallow. I hear his heart rate pick up.

“Do you think I’m gay?”

My eyes fly open, but he’s not looking at me. All I can see of him when I tilt my head down is a head full of golden brown curls.

“Simon,” I say.

He looks up.

“I can’t tell you what you are. You know that.”

He huffs. “I know. I’m asking what you think.”

“What does it matter what I think? I can’t feel what you feel. I haven’t lived your life. I never really had to wonder if I was or wasn’t because it was pretty clear to me that I was.”

“That’s exactly it, innit? Everyone else is so sure of themselves all the time.”

“Everyone?”

“You, Penny, Poppy. You just… get on with things. Like you know you are. And I don’t.”

I reach down and pull him up so we can look at each other properly. “You know who you are.”

He laughs. It’s a horrible, bitter laugh that immediately sets me on edge. “Baz, come on. I literally don’t even know my own last name. I don’t have parents. I don’t know where I come from. I thought I found the answers when the Mage came for me…” He shakes his head, like he can clear his mind of the memories. “And that was all a lie. I don’t know what I’m meant to do. I don’t even know what I like, for fuck’s sake. I don’t know if I like boys or just you. I don’t know if I like girls or I just thought I was supposed to. I don’t know why I’m scared of letting you touch me. I don’t know anything about sex, let alone gay sex.”

I’m reeling too much to say anything useful, but it seems he’s not done.

“Did you know that a lot of lesbians keep two of their fingernails short so they don’t hurt their partners when they’re fingering them?”

Crowley help me, Simon Snow saying the word _fingering_ is too much for my undead gay heart to bear. “I did, actually,” I manage to say with a fairly steady voice. “A lot of gay men do too.”

His expression goes stormy. “See? You know things about gay culture. I don’t know anything.”

I have to get over myself. I have to take control of this before he starts spiralling any further. So I pull him to me and kiss him. Hard. I lick into his mouth and don’t fight the letdown of my fangs when my gums start to itch. He makes an encouraging noise and I feel his tongue on my teeth. He doesn’t seem embarrassed about it this time.

Just like last time, I’m not sure I’m allowed to be aroused by this, but my body doesn’t exactly care about what’s appropriate. I drank three full cups of pig blood before Snow got home, and I feel it all rushing downwards now, swelling between my legs as he practically sucks on my fangs.

I push on his chest just enough to break apart from his lips. “There’s plenty I don’t know,” I say breathlessly. “I don’t know anything about being a vampire.”

I think that hits for him, so I keep going. “I don’t know if my mother would love me if she were still alive.”

“She would,” he whispers. I know in my heart that he can’t know that for sure, but I love him so much for saying it.

“It doesn’t matter where you came from,” I tell him. “Your name is Snow. You like food and football and me and Bunce. You like chavvy clothes and helping people. You’re scared of letting me touch you because you’ve been through hell and back and vulnerability is terrifying. You have far too much experience with people using you and letting you down for trust with intimacy to come easily.”

His eyes go wide.

“You don’t know about sex because you haven’t had any. I haven’t either.” My own heart is racing now. It’s only done that a handful of times since I was Turned. “If we ever do that— I mean, if you ever want to… we’ll be learning together.”

“What about you?” he asks quietly.

“What?”

“You said If I want to… but what about you? Why is it only about what I want?”

I swallow. “I always want you, Simon.”

“Does it hurt to be with me?” he whispers. “Am I just holding you back?”

“No.” I hold his face in my hands. “Don’t be daft. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Even if I’m really terrible at being gay?”

I thunk my forehead into his. “You’re not. There’s no such thing. You’re not gay, you’re Simon. You’re very good at being Simon.”

“So you _don’t_ think I’m gay.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m trying to be poetic.”

“Yeah, I know. And it’s sweet of you, but it’s also a bit shite, innit? I want to _know_. Don’t you think it’d drive you mad if you didn’t even know your own orientation? You always want to know everything.”

I narrow my eyes. “Did this Poppy person say something to you?”

He shrugs. “She asked if I’m gay. And I didn’t have an answer.”

“You could tell her it’s none of her business.”

“I’m not going to be rude to her. She gave me a job.”

“It’s not rude to have boundaries, Snow.”

“Yeah but it’s not a boundary, is it? I wasn’t offended by the question, I just didn’t know the answer.”

I sigh. “Alright, fine. I can admit that I might be frustrated by that.”

“You would,” he says resolutely.

“But if you don’t know the answer, there’s a reason for that. This shit isn’t always easy.”

“What if…” His voice falters. “What if there’s something wrong with me?”

**Simon**

I’m a fucking idiot. I really am. He probably thinks I’m trying to break up with him or something.

I’m not. The truth is I’ve never been happier. I’ve just been doing too much bloody thinking lately. I spent so many years refusing to think about things that now I’ve got no idea how to do it without falling apart.

Baz has gone pale. “Does being with me make you feel like something is wrong with you?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry.”

“Have I been pushing too much?” Baz asks quietly. “Do you feel pressured again?”

“No.” I’m lying flat on top of him, which I’m grateful for. It’ll be easier to convince him he’s not allowed to go anywhere. “I don’t feel pressured.”

“I told you we never have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I know, Baz, I’m not saying—”

“If you’re not attracted to me—”

“Baz.” I say it forcefully. He shuts up.

“I’m attracted to you. I’m very fucking attracted to you.”

“Are you attracted to girls?”

“I don’t… know.” It sounds so incredibly stupid. I know it does.

“You were attracted to Wellbelove.”

“I don’t know if I was. I mean, she’s beautiful. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

His lips are a straight line. “I suppose.”

“She didn’t make me feel the way you do.” I kiss his cheek, then down to his jaw. “I never felt like my skin was too tight when she kissed me.”

He turns his face and catches my mouth with his, and almost immediately I feel it, the too-tight skin feeling, the feeling that I’m going to burst out of myself like confetti. He sucks on my bottom lip, actually proper sucks it, and suddenly I feel very stupid for making any of this into a big deal.

He bites my chin and kisses my throat. He licks over my Adam’s apple. “Simon,” he says, his voice husky.

My eyes are squeezed shut against the onslaught of his attention. I’m realizing now that he’s been holding back every time we kiss. But he isn’t now.

“What?” I croak.

“What do you think about when you wank? Do you think about girls?”

“I don’t wank.”

He pushes me away a bit, his brows deeply furrowed. “What?”

“I don’t. Haven’t done in ages.”

“Why?” He sounds worried.

“I don’t know. I’m scared. It all scares me.”

“Do you ever get turned on?” he asks.

“Fuck off.”

“No, I’m serious.” He touches my hip. “I’m not judging you.”

I kind of want to punch him. No— bite him. I want to sink my teeth into his creamy white skin. So I nudge his head to the side roughly and clamp down on his neck. He gasps, digging his nails into my waist where my shirt has ridden up a bit.

“Of course I get turned on, you fucking prat. You turn me on all the time.”

He looks shocked. “I do?”

“Yes. Of course. You’re my boyfriend. And you’re fucking gorgeous.”

“And that scares you? Being turned on by me?”

I kiss the teeth marks on his neck. “Maybe it’s like you said. All I’ve ever known is people who give up on me.”

“I would never,” he growls. “I won’t. And neither will Bunce.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry, Baz. I don’t like being like this.”

**Baz**

My heart is breaking.

“Simon. Don’t ever apologize.”

“I wanted to believe I could be better. That I could get better. But it always comes back to this. Me being a mess.”

“Stop,” I plead. “You don’t need to be better. You only need to be yourself.”

“I don’t want to be scared of things I want.”

I reach up and grab his biceps. “I think we just need to be honest, yeah? That’s what you said. And I think you were right. I’ll do whatever you need. I’ll help you however I can.” I stretch my face up to nuzzle into his neck. “I love you so fucking much, Simon. You don’t ever need to apologize to me. You’ve saved my life a thousand times over, in ways I can’t even explain to you. I just want to make you happy. I don’t want you to be scared. Just tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you.”

“Tell me why you love me,” he whispers.

“Because you’ve been treated like shit your whole life and you’re still the kindest, most compassionate person I’ve ever known. Because you see light in the darkness. Because you’re stubborn as a fucking mule and you’ve got all the grace of a rhinoceros. You don’t know the meaning of the word moderation. You throw your entire soul into everything you do. You love with abandon. Because you gave me a reason to keep going even when everything felt hopeless. I was a motherless queer vampire that everyone hated, but if I just kept going, maybe I’d get to see you laugh again. Maybe I’d get to see that smile that lit up the whole fucking universe with its warmth. Maybe you’d pick a fight with me and I’d feel alive for the first time in weeks. You were always there, watching me when no one else was.”

“I could never look away.”

“And I hope you never do.”

“Tell me what you like about my body,” he says. “You told me you’d make a list.”

“Your freckles. Your blue eyes. The curls, fucking Crowley, the curls.” I reach up to run my fingers through them. “Your moles. The shape of your arms. Your shoulders. The fact that you’re shorter than me. You have to tilt up to look at me. It feels like you’re making a choice.”

At that, he leans down to kiss me.

“Your mouth,” I murmur when he pulls away again. “Your tongue, your lips. Your fingers.”

“Do I turn you on?”

This stupid, stupid man. “Yes,” I tell him. “So much.”

“Do you think about me when you wank?”

“Always.”

“What do you think about?”

“Everything,” I say. “Everything two men could possibly do together.”

“Do you wish you’d fallen for someone who wouldn’t make this stuff complicated?”

The answer is simple. “No. I don’t want anything from anyone else. I don’t want sex, I want you. If it’s not with you, I’m not interested.”

The questions keep coming, like a dam breaking:

“Did you think about me when we were still at Watford?”

“Yes.”

“Did you wank?”

“Sometimes. In the shower. I did it a lot over summer holidays when there was no risk of you catching me.”

“Do you ever watch porn?”

“Not anymore.”

“But you did?”

“Yes. Mostly out of curiosity.”

“Are you ever attracted to women?”

“No. That hasn’t ever happened. I don’t know if it ever will. I suppose I can’t know for sure that it won’t, but I’ll deal with that if the time comes.”

“So you’re gay for now.”

“It genuinely doesn’t matter much to me,” I say softly, slipping a hand up the back of his shirt. “I’m queer. And I only want you.”

“What’s the difference between gay and queer?”

“Queer is the umbrella. It’s non specific.”

“So…” He bites his lip. “I’m queer, then. That’s what I am.”

I could cry. I actually think I might. “Yes,” I whisper, craning my neck to press my lips to every part of his face that I can reach. “You are.”

He smiles. “Okay. I like that.”

“Can you kiss me please?”

He’s still smiling when he does, and the kiss is a mess of teeth and lips that I want to live in forever.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know why I freaked out like that.”

“You’re allowed.” I’m tracing his spine with the tip of my finger. “I’m glad you talked to me about it instead of keeping it bottled up.”

“What am I going to do?” he asks quietly, laying his cheek against my collarbone.

“About what, love?”

“The sex stuff.”

“We’ll wait until you’re comfortable,” I assure him.

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna wait. I’m tired of waiting. It’s not actually what I want. It’s like there’s this… wall. Or like, a window. I can see through to the other side but I can’t get there.”

“What’s the window?”

He sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s what you said. I’m afraid you’ll leave me.”

“I won’t.”

“Maybe I’ll be so bad at sex that you’ll get tired of me.”

“Utterly ridiculous,” I say.

“Maybe I still think you deserve better than a washed up ex-magician with no future.”

**Simon**

I hate that that thought still has any hold over me. I don’t even really believe it anymore, but sometimes it creeps up when I’m too weak to fight it off.

“I think you know that’s a load of bollocks,” he says softly, and I love him so much for the casualness of his dismissal.

“Yeah,” I say. “I reckon I do, now.”

“Excellent. Glad we got that sorted.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t disappoint you, though.”

“Simon, you literally couldn’t. I loved you even when you were breaking my nose and trying to out my vampirism to everyone at Watford.”

I flinch.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, rubbing my back. “Sorry. It’s okay.”

“I was such a bully.”

“Stop,” he says. “You weren’t. We were just children.”

“I just want to smash the fucking window,” I practically growl. “I’m so sick of it.”

“You will. You’re very good at defeating your enemies.”

I snort into his shirt, and I can feel his stomach moving under me as he laughs.

“Christ, that was cheesy.”

His smile is wide and open, and it’s about as comforting as anything I’ve ever seen. I haven’t screwed up too badly. I haven’t pushed him away yet.

“It was,” he agrees. “But also a hundred percent true.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Simon**

Penelope crashes into the flat like someone is chasing her, slamming the door and tossing her rucksack to the ground. Baz and I are on the sofa in the lounge. He’s writing a paper on his laptop and I’m sat curled up next to him watching Love Island. It’s Friday evening and I’ve just finished my first week as a barista, and even though Poppy’s is far from busy and the menu is anything but extensive, I feel like my whole body has been wrung out. Being a contributing member of society is a lot more exhausting when you don’t have an endless supply of nuclear strength magic powering you.

“Bunce, could you slam the door a little harder, please?” Baz drawls without looking up from his computer. “I think I still have a bit of hearing left in my right ear.”

She ignores him, as she usually does when he’s antagonizing her. “I need your help,” she declares, looking at me.

I take in the sight of her. She looks about the same as she always does, hair pulled back in a poofy ponytail, no makeup, glasses slipped to the end of her nose. She’s got tights on under her skirt, a concession to the dropping temperatures as October creeps toward November.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I got invited to a Halloween party.”

“A grave insult, indeed,” Baz says.

“What’s wrong with that?” I ask her. “Can’t you just say no if you don’t want to go?”

She sighs heavily, dropping down on the other end of the sofa. She sits right on top of my feet, but she’s so out of sorts that I don’t think she even notices.

“I do want to go. I just don’t want to go alone.”

“Why?” I ask, pulling my feet out from under her.

“Because I’m not good at making friends and you are.”

Baz finally looks up from his essay.

I frown. “You want to make friends?” My voice is more than a little incredulous.

She shrugs. “Not necessarily. It’s just… If I don’t go I’ll probably just spend that time doing schoolwork.” She throws her feet up on the coffee table and crosses them at the ankles. “I’m bored, I guess. Or… I’m boring. Uni is supposed to be the time when you party and do stupid things.”

“You hate parties,” I say.

“I’ve never really been to one, though, have I? Not a proper one.”

“You hate doing stupid things.”

She rolls her eyes. “Nicks and Slick, Simon. It’s one night. I want to wear a stupid costume and get drunk and listen to bad music at loud volumes.”

“I’d rather hack my own feet off with a rusty butter knife,” Baz offers.

I shrug. “Sounds fun to me.”

Her face brightens. “Really? You’ll come?”

“Yeah, ‘course we will.”

“Don’t bring me into this,” Baz says, shutting his laptop. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Please,” Penny scoffs. “We both know that if Simon’s coming, you’re coming too.”

I don’t give him time to argue, finding his hand and slipping my fingers between his. “It’ll be fun,” I say, in a voice that’s just for him, even if Penny is close enough to hear it too. “We’ve never been to a party together. I’ve never seen you happy drunk.”

He’s still looking skeptical, but he rubs his thumb along the back of my hand. “I’ve never been happy drunk before.”

“It’ll be fun,” I say again. “We can be boyfriends. Publicly.”

“Ooh,” Penny interjects. “You could do couples’ costumes.”

“Oh Crowley,” Baz groans. “Do I have to wear a costume?”

“I reckon you do for a Halloween party,” I say apologetically.

He looks at Penny. “You owe me for this, Bunce. Truly.”

She waves her hand at him dismissively, hauling herself up off the sofa. “I’ve got some online shopping to do. Simon, can I pick your costumes?”

“Sure,” I say cheerfully at the same time as Baz says, “Absolutely not.”

I squeeze his hand. He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t put up any more arguments, which makes me grin. It really makes me smile hard. I nuzzle my face into his neck. “You fancy me a bit, don’t you?”

“No. Not at all. You’re awful.”

“You’ve got a big fat crush on me.” I kiss the spot below his ear.

“If she tries to make me dress as a vampire, you’re both dead to me.”

**Baz**

She doesn’t try to dress me as a vampire, though it’s a close second.

“Do you think you’re funny, Bunce?”

“Yes,” she says, tossing me the package she’d had express delivered. “It’s fitting, don’t you think? Go put it on. I have to do Simon’s makeup.”

“Makeup?” Simon squeaks.

“Makeup,” she confirms.

“I’m not wearing the tail,” I declare. “This is all humiliating enough. I draw the fucking line at a tail.”

Bunce rolls her eyes. “Fine. But I’m doing your makeup after Simon’s.”

“Bunce!”

Snow sidles up to me and takes my horrible tacky costume out of my hands to study it. “I reckon you’ll look sexy in this.”

“Ugh,” Bunce mutters.

“That is certainly impossible,” I say, taking it back from him.

Snow turns to Bunce. “Are you going to paint his face red?”

“I assume he won’t let me.”

“You’d be correct in that assumption,” I inform her.

“Fine. Something minimalistic, then.” She grabs Simon’s arm and starts pulling him toward her bedroom. “Go get dressed, Basilton,” she instructs. “And don’t forget the horns.”

-

I don’t forget the bloody horns. They’re red and plastic and horribly cheap, glued onto an equally cheap band that physically hurts me to put on my head. The suit is just as horribly crafted and so ill-fitting that I quickly abandon the idea of putting it on my body.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve got a red suit of my own, one that’s perfectly tailored to my measurements. I hadn’t managed to find an occasion to wear it up til now, and it pains me that a university Halloween party is my first opportunity, but I suppose I should be thankful that at least if I have to dress up as a cartoon devil, I can do so in style.

I wear a black shirt underneath and black shoes, and debate slicking my hair back before deciding that I’d rather leave it loose. I know Simon likes that better, and this is really all for him. It’s technically for Bunce, and Simon would do anything for Bunce. But I’d do anything for him. So for me, it’s about him.

I already feel a bit bad for protesting so much. I don’t know what could have possibly possessed Bunce to suddenly crave the university experience of a common idiot, but I understand why Simon might.

He never got a Halloween. He spent his childhood in care homes. Holidays were nothing but a stark light cast over how much was missing in his life, how he didn’t have a soul in the world who cared to try to make any day special for him.

Suddenly I think I understand. This isn’t about Bunce at all. This was always about Simon.

Shame burns bitter in my gut. Though I like to fancy myself cleverer than her, it would seem there are still a few things I could learn from Penelope Bunce.

So fuck it. If she wants to paint my face red, I’ll let her.

But I’m still not wearing the tail.

-

I knock on Bunce’s door a few minutes later, eager to redeem myself.

“Wait a sec!” she shouts. “He’s almost ready!”

“Is it a surprise?” I always sound condescending, even when I don’t mean to.

“Yes,” she replies. She’s very good at letting my snark roll off her back, I'll give her that. “I’m making him pretty for you, so shut up.”

“Penny!” Snow whinges. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? He’s going to love it.”

“Well I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because. I mean, it’s… it’s a bit gay, innit?”

“Glitter doesn’t have a gender,” Bunce says coolly. “And anyway, you are a bit gay.”

My curiosity is officially piqued. “I’m coming in now, Bunce.”

“Oh, fine,” she huffs, “come in, then.”

I push the door open and there Snow is, sat cross legged on Penny’s bed with a bit of a put upon look on his face. “Don’t say a fucking word,” he grumbles at me.

I don’t know how she’s done it, but Bunce has just gone and taught me something else. Something she shouldn’t know, especially since it’s something I didn’t know, which is that Simon Snow dressed all in white with glitter on his face is extremely fucking sexy.

“Crowley.”

Bunce beams. “Told you,” she says to Simon.

He looks at me. “It doesn’t look daft?”

All I can do is shake my head. The man is wearing white jeans.

“Your turn,” Bunce declares, springing up off her bed and shoving me towards it.

I barely even notice. I can’t stop staring at Snow. “You really do look like an angel,” I say, and I’m sure I’ll be embarrassed about that later, but it’s worth it for the smile that slowly spreads across his face.

“And he’s not even wearing the wings yet,” Bunce says proudly. Then she narrows her eyes at me. “That’s not the costume I bought you.”

“The costume you bought me looks like it was made in the dark by children.”

“You look good,” Simon says, cutting off whatever Bunce was about to say. He reaches out and tugs gently on the lapel of my jacket. “Really good.”

“Alright, fine. The suit is good,” Bunce admits grudgingly.

I’m not really paying her any mind. Simon is looking at me in what I imagine is the same way I’m looking at him, and it’s doing things to my insides.

Then she starts coming at me with a makeup brush.

I lean away from her. “Tell me what you’re doing first.”

She shrugs. “I just need you to look a bit more… dark. If that’s possible.”

I pluck the brush from her hand. “I’ll do it. I don’t trust you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Go do it in the loo, I need to get changed.” She waves Snow and I away.

“What’s your costume?” he asks her.

She holds up a wide brimmed, pointy tipped black hat. “A witch, of course.”

**Simon**

I guess I’ll have to add makeup to the endless list of things Baz is unnaturally good at. I would be annoyed if he didn’t look so fit.

Does it make me a little extra queer that Baz wearing eyeliner is really doing it for me?

I don’t care. I officially don’t care. He looks like a bloody model.

We take the tube to the party. Apparently it’s technically close enough to walk, but it’s cold outside and starting to drizzle and Penny says she’ll be tilted if my makeup washes off and all her work was for nothing. I don’t point out that all she really did was put glue around my eyes and cheeks and stick glitter to it. I appreciate her enthusiasm.

I’m actually genuinely excited. I’ve never really celebrated Halloween. And the only parties I’ve been to are the Christmas ones Agatha and I were dragged to by her parents. Well, Agatha was dragged. I didn’t mind. There was always lots of food, and it was fun to get dressed up. But I’ve never been to a proper house party, one with drinking and music and all the stuff Penny said, one with people my own age. I suppose there was Baz’s leaver’s ball, but being back at Watford then was painful.

I didn’t think Penny cared about this kind of stuff. She never has before. She certainly didn’t put a ton of effort into her own costume. Really it’s just the hat. And the broom, which she keeps accidentally hitting people with on the train. No one is amused.

There’s also a pair of blokes frowning at me, and it takes me longer than it should to realize that their disgust isn’t about my proximity to the girl with the errant broom, it’s about my costume. I guess their masculinity is feeling somehow threatened by my fluffy white wings and sparkly face.

I’ve only really gotten this kind of look once that I can remember, at the airport before we flew to America, when Baz and I had the audacity to stand a little too close to each other. I cowered back then, took a few steps back so the prying eyes would cease their judgement.

This time I lean right into Baz’s space and kiss him square on the mouth.

**Baz**

Simon Snow is very good at publicly displaying his affection. I would blame it on the three beers he’s had so far, but he was still stone cold sober when he snogged me on the tube.

Right now he’s chatting with someone dressed as a skeleton. I’m not really actively participating, because I don’t care for shouted conversations with inebriated strangers, but I’m standing right next to him. He’s holding my hand for all to see and there’s nowhere I’d rather be.

It’s every fantasy I’ve ever had, and somehow more. This is Snow, Simon bloody Snow, holding my hand in a crowded room, introducing me to people neither of us know as his boyfriend. ‘My boyfriend Baz,’ he says, like my name is secondary to the fact that we’re together. It’s a gentle, proud kind of possessiveness that makes my insides feel like warm honey.

His wings look absolutely ridiculous, but his legs in those jeans should be illegal. The glitter on his cheeks catches in the dimly lit flat like his freckles are made of light.

Bunce is in the corner of the lounge having what looks like a deep philosophical conversation with a small group of people I assume are her classmates, which only makes me more certain that needing moral support in socializing was never her reason for asking Simon to come to this party.

And fuck, was she on to something. He’s practically glowing. He keeps pulling me around the room to compliment strangers on their costumes. He’s eaten enough sweets to sink a battleship.

He’s also been plying me with drinks. Bad drinks. Vimto mixed with too much vodka. I'm about three drinks in now, so they’re actually starting to taste good. I have to admit that I’m having fun.

My experience with alcohol up to this point has been exclusively reserved for guzzling whiskey in the catacombs to dull the pain of being a tortured teenage vampire and the odd glass of red wine at formal family dinners. I’ve never drunk sugary cocktails in a flat that smells vaguely of cigarette smoke while a beautiful man slips his arm around my waist and whispers into my ear that I look really good with eyeliner on.

I think I’m properly buzzed. My eyelids feel heavy. Everything feels slightly unreal in a hazy, dreamy sort of way.

“You look happy,” Snow says. We find ourselves slightly removed from the crowd at the moment, stood in a corner of the room that he led us to after necking the rest of his fourth Stella.

Did he pull me away just to tell me I look happy? Is it that rare an occurrence?

I lean back against the wall, pulling him close to me with a handful of his shirt. “I am, Snow. You make me happy. Get used to it.”

He smiles. “You’re pissed.”

“You made sure of that, didn’t you?”

He only smiles wider, leaning into my chest. “Maybe.”

I breathe him in, pressing my mouth to his temple. His curls have gone a bit sweaty and he tastes like salt. “Are you having a good time?” I murmur.

He nods, and I feel one of his hands wrap around my hip. “I wish we were at home now, though.”

“What?” I frown. “Why?”

“Because…” He trails off, and just before I can ask him again, he tilts his head and brushes his lips against my neck.

The sensation it inspires is electric, and I couldn’t help the popping of my fangs even if I wanted to.

“What’s got into you?” I ask him, lisping slightly over my teeth.

He shrugs, mouth still ghosting over my throat. “I know you only agreed to any of this because you knew I wanted to do it.”

“Snow, if you haven’t noticed by now that I’d do just about anything you asked of me, you really haven’t been paying attention.”

“Call me Simon.” His breath is warm on my skin, always so warm.

“Simon.”

**Simon**

I didn’t expect the night to go like this.

I thought he’d be stroppy and difficult and asking to leave after half an hour. I thought I’d be lucky if I could convince him to have one drink.

Instead he’s let me drag him around the party to show him off. He’s drunk every drink I’ve made him and refrained from taking the piss out of anyone’s daft costumes. He’s been looking at me with twinkling eyes all night, and I’m practically bursting out of my skin with how much I want him.

I still don’t really know what that means. All I know is that he looks insanely gorgeous and somehow he’s here with _me_. He cares about making me happy.

His fangs are out, but he doesn’t seem worried about it. I’m not even sure he’s noticed. I’m kind of kissing his neck and his body feels like one big ball of tension. Hopefully it’s good tension. I reckon I’m taking the PDA at least several steps too far, but it’s not like he’s doing anything to try to reign me in. He’s still got his hand fisted in my shirt. It’s going to be awfully creased by the end of the night which is something he usually teases me about, how my clothes are always wrinkled because I never fold them, but this time he only has himself to blame.

“Simon,” he says, and he sounds a bit choked.

“What?”

“I think you…” He swallows. “You probably should stop.”

The me of a few months ago would probably have taken those words as a rejection, but I’ve come a long way since then. We both have. Instead of shrinking back in shame I just ask, “Why?”

“Because. It’s… affecting me.”

My heart instantly starts beating faster, and I’m not sure if it’s nerves or something more like excitement. Maybe it’s both. “You mean…”

“Please, for the love of Crowley, don’t make me say it.”

“What if I want you to say it?”

He lets go of my shirt to press his palm flat to my chest and push gently. “Seriously, what has gotten into you, Snow?”

I shrug. “I’m pissed and you’re hot and this is fun.”

“The party?”

I roll my eyes, and push back against the hand he’s still got pressed to my sternum. “Being here with you, you wanker.”

“No one has ever accused me of being fun.”

“That’s because no one knows you like I do.”

His eyes go twinkly again, and I wouldn’t be bothered if every single person in the room was watching, I tilt my face up and kiss him. He kisses me back, apparently forgetting that he wanted me to stop, or perhaps enjoying my mouth so much that he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t have to tell me exactly how I’m affecting him. I can feel it when I push myself up against his body. And yeah, it makes my heart pound so hard I feel slightly nauseous, but there’s definitely some excitement mixed in with the fear.

Then there’s something grabbing my shoulder and pulling me back, which is extremely confusing until I get smacked in the face with the brim of Penny’s hat.

“If the two of you just wanted to hook up you could’ve stayed at home,” she hisses.

I give her my best innocent puppy eyes. “What? No. We came to support you.”

“Fucking bang up job you’re doing, then, eh?” She huffs. “You haven’t spoken to me all night.”

Baz pushes himself off the wall and straightens the collar of his shirt. “You seemed to be handling it just fine, Bunce.” He’s so cool, completely unruffled by Penny’s scolding.

The two of them share a look that I don’t understand, then Penny turns her attention back to me. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

I feel my cheeks flush. Luckily I reckon it’s dark enough in here that she won’t be able to notice. “Yeah. I am. I’m glad you asked us along. Sorry I’ve been… distracted. Do you need help making friends?”

Baz snickers.

As always, Penny ignores him. “I’m alright,” she says to me. “You should keep having fun. But please, for the sake of the rest of us, find somewhere more private if you’re going to have _that_ kind of fun.”

I hide my face in my hands. Baz says, “Got any suggestions?”

**Baz**

I was mostly joking. I didn’t expect her to immediately direct us up a flight of stairs to a hallway lined with bedrooms. I didn’t expect her to tell me to make sure I spell the door locked if I manage to find one that isn’t already occupied.

“Honestly,” she’d said, shaking her head. “What is it about being drunk and sweaty that makes people want to—”

“Oh my god, Pen.” Simon had actually clapped his hand over her mouth. “Shut up. Ring me if you need me. We‘re just gonna be talking anyway.”

I bit my tongue, but Bunce wasn’t quite so diplomatic, rolling her eyes theatrically. “Whatever, Simon. Just don’t leave without me.”

“Of course not,” he’d promised. Then she’d left us alone.

We found a bedroom that wasn’t already occupied. Now we’re inside it, and I’ve just spelled the door locked. And soundproof. Just in case.

“So,” I say, one eyebrow raised. “Talking?”

I retracted my fangs when Bunce interrupted us, but they drop right back down when Simon pushes me up against the door gently and starts kissing my neck again. “We can talk.”

“You’re a menace,” I tell him. “You should be wearing the devil costume.”

“But you look so good in it.”

He’s kissing me so softly; slow, intentioned presses of lips to skin. It’s more romantic than sexual, but my body doesn’t seem to give a toss about that. Everything within me craves him, and the alcohol only worsens the blur between the desire to touch and the desire to taste. I’m not even thirsty, he just smells so incredible.

But I can resist. It’s not difficult to resist biting him. Even when he’s asked me to, the idea is utterly repugnant. I’d never risk his humanity like that.

Resisting the urge to touch him is much, much harder. For fuck’s sake, he’s got me all but pinned to the door, it’s not wholly unreasonable for me to hope he might be alright with a few wandering fingers.

I settle for slipping a hand up the back of his shirt. It’s a move he seems to be comfortable with, which means I do it every chance I get.

“You look amazing tonight,” I tell him. Because it’s true, and also to distract myself from my hand’s proximity to his ass in those glorious white jeans.

“I have wings,” he says dismissively, then kisses a particularly sensitive spot that sends chills down my arms.

“You suit them,” I manage to say. “And you look good in white. Bunce did a good job.” I can feel more than see his smile. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmurs. “I think the universe would rip in half if you two were genuinely kind to each other.”

“She made me wear horns.”

“She was being cheeky.” He pulls back to look at me. “She did a good job with you, too. Even if you’re not wearing the real costume. Even in a roundabout way, she got you into that suit. She did good.”

I press my forehead to his, my hair falling into both our faces. “Sometimes it still feels unreal that all my unrequited teenage yearning for you wasn’t ultimately in vain.”

Crowley. I must really be drunk to be saying things like that.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Sometimes it feels unreal that I’m still alive for any of this.”

“Well you are.” I tug him towards me, ignoring the fear of rejection or pushing too hard to take his hand and lead him to the bed in the corner of the room. “You are, and you have it. You deserve it.”

He looks at the bed and then at me. “Are you still… affected?”

A much more intense wave of fear washes over me as I guide his hand to press between my legs. His expression is unreadable, which only adds to the terror, but then he presses his palm against me more firmly. He squeezes his fingers slightly around the shape of me.

“Get on the bed,” he says. “Okay? Lie down.”

I do. I lie on my back and try not to tremble as I wait for what comes next. The bed is absolutely microscopic. There’s nowhere for him to go but on top of me.

He does just that, shimmying out of his ridiculous fluffy white wings and climbing up to straddle me on all fours. His curls hang down, brushing my face when he kisses me.

“I’m not ready for anything,” he says.

“That’s fine, Snow. That’s perfectly fine.”

“I want to kiss you.”

“Good,” I say, and my hand finds its way under his shirt again, this time at the front. I rub his stomach the way he so often rubs mine. “Kiss me. I love it when you kiss me.”

He lowers himself down, shifting his weight to the elbows that bracket my head. His lower body presses against mine, and I can feel in stunning clarity that I’m not the only one who’s affected by the turn of tonight’s events.

“I’m turned on,” he whispers. “You turn me on.”

“How do you feel about it?” I ask. “Are you scared?”

He nods. “A bit.”

“I’m right here.” I squeeze his waist. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding far away. He’s looking at my mouth.

“Simon.”

His eyes snap back into focus. “What?”

“I’m here.”

He nods, and then he’s dragging a finger over my bottom lip. I open my mouth slightly and he leans down to run his tongue up against the points of my fangs.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he says. “This feeling.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

He groans, dropping his head onto my shoulder. “I _know_ , Baz. I get it, you’re the best boyfriend ever. You respect me enough not to pressure me. But like… I _want_ to do something about it. I’m going mad.”

There’s a small awful part of me that finds it laughably ridiculous that we’re both squirming with sexual frustration and not allowed to do anything about it. I bite it back quickly, rubbing the soft skin of his side. “Would you consider…” For some reason, it feels hard to say. “Masturbation?”

“What, now?”

_Fuck yes._

“Not necessarily. Just, it might be a good way to explore ways to feel safe with these feelings.”

I sound like an idiot. I sound like a complete fucking wanker.

“Like… with you?”

_Please, god, yes._

“Not necessarily.”

He kisses me again, possibly because he doesn’t want to discuss this any longer. It’s a controlled kiss, slow but deep, and after a few minutes I feel like I’m melting into the mattress beneath me.

And then there are fingers near my throat, fumbling and warm, and he’s still kissing me but he’s distracted now and I don’t understand what’s going on because there’s no room in my brain for anything but the waves of contentment coursing through me. I don’t work it out until the top button of my shirt comes undone.

**Simon**

His eyebrows shoot up, both of them. I’m scared shitless but I don’t stop, moving down to the next button and slipping it through the hole. I lean down to kiss the spot where his neck meets his chest and his skin is not quite as cool as it usually is. I feel him swallow.

“Can I?” I ask, because he suddenly seems proper nervous.

“Yes, fuck, of course,” he babbles, then says, “Can you what, though?”

Merlin, something about seeing all his coolness dissolve really gets me. “I dunno.” I reach for the next button. “I just want your shirt open for now.”

He nods. His hair is all fanned out on the pillow, his upper lip pouting out a bit to make room for his fangs.

My fingers are trembling as I work to get his buttons undone. I kind of lied when I said I didn’t know what I want.

I have an idea. I just have to work up the nerve to ask.

I pull the bottom of his shirt out from where it’s tucked into his trousers, and finally slip the last button through the last hole. I think he’s holding his breath as I push the shirt open to expose his chest and stomach.

I feel very gay in this moment. His chest is flat and there’s a trail of hair under his belly button and his nipples are almost the same colour as the rest of his skin, just half a shade pinker. They’re small and I like the look of them so much that I’m not even afraid to lean down and kiss one. He lets out the breath he was holding and reaches up to touch my hair.

I sit up and put my hands on his ribs, splaying my fingers out across the ridges of bone under his skin. He feels like mine.

“You’re so fucking hot, Baz.”

“Speak for yourself,” he croaks. He’s got a hand on my thigh and he’s squeezing hard.

I reckon this is probably torturous for him. He’s not like me. He’s a normal bloke. He doesn’t have these weird hang ups about getting physical, and lately I know I’ve been making it harder by dangling the possibility of more in front of him.

I want more. I’m so hard it hurts. There’s no way he can’t see that. Knowing Baz, he can probably smell it, like pheromones or something.

I slide my hands up to his chest and press my palms down harder than I would if he wasn’t supernaturally strong. My thumbs meet in the dip between his collarbones. He’s looking at me with his stormy grey eyes full of want and intensity and I know that if I can’t ask for what I want now, I never will. He’ll never be able to give himself to me more than he is now. He’s already giving me everything.

One of my hands slides up higher, wrapping loosely around his throat.

And then he says, “I’m here.” And I feel in my bones that I’ll never doubt it again.

I let go of his neck. I lean down and kiss his mouth. I kiss between his pecs. I kiss my way down his ribs. Then I shuffle back a bit so I’m sat on his thighs.

My hands come to rest on his belt buckle.

“Snow…”

“Can I?”

His fangs are digging into his bottom lip as he nods.

I open his belt. The soft clink of metal and the way his chest moves as he breathes is nearly pornographic with how much it turns me on.

I pop open the button on his trousers and pull the zipper down. I can see the band of his pants. They say Calvin Klein on them, and I’m surprised. I would have figured he had some ridiculous expensive posh underwear, but he doesn’t. He has the same underwear as me.

And then I realize that actually, he doesn’t. They’re not the same brand as mine. They _are_ mine.

I tug them down. Sort of roughly. I don’t want to wait a single second now. I want to see him.

**Baz**

Snow has just pulled my pants down. My cock is so hard it slapped back against my belly when he did it. The sound it made was terrifyingly blunt. Crude, really. Now Snow is staring at it and I’m afraid to move. I’m afraid he’s going to run away.

Then his tongue darts out to wet his lip. “I want…”

My heart stops. I actually feel the cessation of its beating for a moment. I wait.

He clears his throat. He doesn’t look disgusted or offended. Scared, maybe. I’m reluctant to hope he likes what he sees, but I can’t count out that possibility. Simon Snow has always been full of surprises.

“Show me,” he says quietly, finally.

“Show you what?”

“How you do it.” He reaches up, and for an agonizing moment I dare to think he’s going to touch me.

He does touch me, but not between my legs. He touches my hip, rubbing it and stroking his thumb inwards, towards the hair there. It’s trimmed but not as much as it would have been if I’d known he was going to be spending so much time looking.

“I want to watch you wank.”

I resist the urge to fall apart or question him. This is big. This is fucking monumental.

“Alright?” he asks.

I reach down and get a grip on myself before he can overthink himself into the ludicrous notion that I’m anything but overjoyed to do whatever the bloody fucking hell he asks me to do right now.

My eyes are locked on his, and his are locked on the stroking movements of my fist. To my own dismay, I’m already tugging with quickness and impatience. I wish I had the fortitude to put on a show for him that he might actually enjoy, but this entire night has felt like foreplay, and the express permission to get myself off is impossible not to lean into.

He’s still stroking my hip. It’s not doing anything to help my stamina. Quite the opposite, actually. I shut my eyes and let myself feel the sheer relief of it all, of the physical sensations, but also of knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that my boyfriend is attracted to me. That he wants me in all the ways I want him.

“Baz.”

It’s only been a few minutes and I’m already close. Him saying my name like that is going to push me over the edge, and I’m okay with it. I’ll do better next time, if he lets us have a next time.

But then he says it more firmly. “Baz.”

I open my eyes. “What?”

“Can you stop?”

My stomach drops. I let go of myself as if I’ve been shocked.

“No,” he says quickly, “that’s not—” He picks up my hand and guides it back to my cock. “I meant, like, slow down a bit. Stop trying so hard to get it over with.”

I frown. “Why?”

“I don’t want it to be over yet,” he says. “I like watching.”

My stomach drops again, this time in a completely different way. “Fucking hell, Snow.” I have to squeeze the base until it hurts just to counter the spasm of pleasure his words elicit. It’s bad enough that he’s sitting on my legs watching me touch myself. It’s bad enough that he asked for it. Hearing that he likes it is way more than one poor man’s fragile heart can handle. “I’m so close already,” I tell him.

“Go slow?”

I do, and this time I don’t close my eyes. I’m a glutton for punishment, and the way he’s looking at me is deliciously painful.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say. Talking is a good distraction. And I want to make sure he’s okay.

“Not thinking anything, mate.”

I snort. Sometimes his northern accent thickens when he isn’t paying attention, and there’s no better proof that he’s currently enthralled by me than that chavvy mumble. I shouldn’t find it sexy, but I do a bit. He makes me such an idiot.

“Snow.”

His eyes flick up to meet mine. “Huh?”

“Alright?”

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “I just… do you do this at home?”

I laugh again. “Where else would I do it?”

“Yeah, but, like… do you do it in bed? Like when I’m there?”

“No. That’s what the shower is for.”

He nods slowly, eyes drifting back down to watch me work myself over. “Well you could, you know. Do it in bed. When I’m there.”

“I wouldn’t want to make you feel—”

My words die on my tongue when Snow shoves his hand down the front of his jeans. I can’t tell if he’s gone under the pants or not, but it hardly matters. It’s still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Sorry,” he says, making no move to remove his hand.

“Why on earth would you apologize?”

“I’m not gonna— I can’t actually do it. It’s just… hard. It’s a bit uncomfortable.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

He shakes his head. “I think it’s good. I think it’s helping.”

“Helping what?” It’s a testament to my attraction to him that I can carry on a full on conversation without it dulling my arousal in the slightest. I’m barely wanking at all now, I’ve just got my fist wrapped around the tip, squeezing on and off. I could finish any moment. As soon as he’s had his fill of watching.

He shrugs. “Helping to make it feel less scary?”

“Do you think you want to try?”

His eyes go wide. “On you?”

_Fuck me, Merlin and Morgana and Crowley and jesus fucking christ, yes._

“On yourself.”

“Not here,” he says. “Not now. Not… not in front of you.”

I can’t pretend that doesn’t sting.

He notices. “Baz.”

“It’s fine, Snow. I get it.” I start tugging roughly again. Suddenly I’m ready to be done.

He pulls his hand out of his jeans and growls, “No you don’t.” He leans down and kisses me open mouthed and wet and desperate. “You don’t get it at all.”

“Explain it to me, then,” I say breathlessly, my lips still brushing his. My hand has stilled.

“Keep going,” he says.

I do, my knuckles brushing the denim of his trousers with every stroke. “I want you, Simon.” I’m close to the edge now and it’s making me reckless. It’s making me selfish. “I want you.”

“I know.” He kisses me. “You have me, Baz.”

I close my eyes and come over my knuckles. I can’t imagine I haven’t made a bit of a mess of him as well, but before I can apologize, before I can even catch my breath, his weight is on top of me fully. The fly of his jeans is digging into my stomach.

“I love you,” he says, right into my ear. His breath is hot and it makes me shiver. “I’m trying.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to get there.”

“I know, Simon.” I reach down between our bodies to pull my pants and trousers up. “Please forget I said anything.”

“No. It actually helps, I think. You pushing.”

“I’m really not trying to push,” I say, dismayed.

He shifts his weight to the side a bit so he’s only laid half on top of me. “I know, but that’s what you do to me. It’s what we do to each other. Always have done, haven’t we?”

“I lost myself for a moment.” I turn my head on the pillow to look at his face. It’s flushed, something I hadn’t noticed before, and there’s glitter everywhere. “You absolutely shouldn’t be pushed about this.”

“Well, I enjoyed your honesty. Sometimes it’s nice to just hear what you’re actually thinking.”

“I’m always honest with you.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not accusing you of anything, you tosser. Shut up.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, but he just takes it as an opportunity to kiss me, so I let it go.

“That was hot, by the way,” he says quietly. “Like, very very hot. I liked watching.”

I could probably be convinced to go again just on the force of those words alone. “I liked you watching.”

“What were you thinking about?”

I laugh, leaning into him and nuzzling my face into his curls. “You’re such an idiot, Snow.”

“Maybe I just want a little ego boost.” I can hear in his voice that he’s smiling. “Is that so terrible?”

“I didn’t have to _think_ about anything, did I? You were right there. You were on top of me.”

He wraps an arm around my waist and squeezes, and I allow myself to bask in the afterglow. I wish he had an afterglow to bask in too, but this still feels like progress.

“Baz?”

“Yeah, love.”

“I’m gonna do it. In the shower. Maybe tomorrow.”

My stomach flutters picturing it. “Yeah?”

He nods. “I’m gonna think about this. About how you looked and the sounds you made. All of it.”

“Well then I’m going to do it in your bed while you shower, and I’m going to think about you thinking about me.”

“You must be so bloody annoyed with me. Nearly two years together and I can’t even wank in the same room as you.”

“Simon.” I roll over on my side to face him. “There are a thousand reasons you annoy me, but that isn’t one of them. I promise.”

He grins. “Fuck you.”

“Someday, I hope.”

**Simon**

I really do like that he’s starting to say stuff like that again. I wish I knew how to explain to him that it doesn’t feel like pressure the way it used to. Now it just feels like… like motivation, I guess. Something to look forward to. Something to work towards.

“Me too,” I say quietly. He kisses my temple and I close my eyes, and even though it was Baz who got off and not me, I feel heavy and warm and sated and sleepy. It could be all the beer, I guess, but I think it has a lot more to do with being dead in love with Baz and properly hopeful about the future in a way that sometimes still feels like a dream.

I don’t know how much time passes before he’s kissing my cheek and saying, “Simon, love, we have to go now,” but I reckon it’s been a while. I reckon I fell asleep.

“Don’t wanna,” I mumble, shoving my face into the pillow.

“Bunce is blowing up my phone,” he says. “And we’re sleeping in a stranger’s bed.”

I groan, allowing him to pull me up. “You have to carry me home.”

He takes my hand and pulls me from the bed, then bends down to pick up my wings. “I’ll spell Bunce’s broom to fly us home. Come on.”

He puts my wings back on for me. He must have spelled the mess he made away when I was sleeping, because he looks immaculate again, if a little drowsy. His eyes are heavy lidded and dark and pretty. His makeup isn’t smudged at all. He’s not wearing the horns anymore.

We collect Penny and leave the party. No one spells her broom and the cool air actually feels nice after so many hours in a warm sweaty apartment, so we end up walking home.

Penny makes tea and toast to lessen the chances of us all being horrifically hung over the next day. We eat at the table together, and then Baz takes me by the hand and leads me to my bedroom.

It’s not really my bedroom anymore. It’s ours.

I strip out of my clothes without an ounce of apprehension about him looking at my body. And he is. I can see that he is. I’m stood in the middle of the room in my pants, yawning, pushing my hair out of my eyes. It’s well and truly time for a haircut. Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow.

“You should wear white more often,” Baz says softly. He’s still wearing all his clothes.

“You should get undressed.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Are you going to watch?”

I sit on the edge of the bed. “Damn right.”

His clothes come off slowly. I think he’s trying to give me a bit of a show, and if he is, he’s doing a very good job of it. I watch the minute shift of the muscles in his stomach as he slips his shirt off. He’s got actual abs. It’s bloody ridiculous.

Once he drops his trousers, I’m officially out of patience. I reach an arm out, curling my fingers inwards to beckon him to me.

“I’m in my pants,” he says, as if I can’t see that. His trousers are pooled around his ankles.

“Actually you’re in my pants. Come here.”

He steps out of the red fabric at his feet and actually leaves his suit on the floor in a heap. He must still be a bit pissed.

I shuffle back and lay my head down on the pillow, still reaching for him so he knows I want him on top of me and not on the side of the bed he usually sleeps on. I know I should let him sleep, but I’m not ready for this night to be over. It’s been a fucking incredible night.

He lies on top of me, cool skin against my warmth, and I pull the duvet up over us.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?”

“For tonight. For coming to the stupid party and wearing the stupid costume.”

“Yes, well.” He fits his face into the crook between my neck and shoulder. “You made it rather enjoyable for me.”

Despite myself, my eyes are already drifting shut. His weight on top of me is grounding, and while I’d kind of hoped I’d be brave enough to make something happen, falling asleep underneath him wouldn’t be such a terrible alternative.

“Baz?”

He hums sleepily, shifting his weight a little bit on top of me, reminding me starkly that all that separates our bits is a couple thin layers of fabric.

And it doesn’t scare me. It really doesn’t. I’ve seen him naked now, more than once. I’ve seen him soft and I’ve seen him hard and I’ve watched him touch himself and I’ve liked it all. I like him for real, and there’s nothing about who he is that scares me anymore.

I run my hand up his spine and then back down. Up again, and down. He moans softly, so quiet I only hear it because his mouth is pressed against my skin. I drag my palm up his back, squeeze the knot of muscle in his shoulder, then stroke back down. When my fingers meet the band of his Calvins, I let myself slide under the fabric and touch his bare bottom. He inhales a little more sharply, and I give his cheek a squeeze.

He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his body go a bit more taut. I’m afraid to say anything. I’m afraid to acknowledge this with words. It feels like he’s cast something over me, but I know he hasn’t. There’s no spell to break, but I don’t want to risk it.

I want to touch him. I want to let myself follow the urge to put my hands in places I’ve never been brave enough to put them before.

So I do. I cup his arse. I squeeze it gently. I run my palm over the dip between his cheeks to squeeze the other side. His mouth is open and his breaths are damp against my neck.

He’s hard. I squeeze his arse a little harder and he rolls his hips into me.

Then he freezes. He probably didn’t make a conscious decision to do that. His body made the decision before his brain could rebuke it. He’s scared now, I can tell.

But I’m not. I’m hard too, and I want him to do it again.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. I don’t want him to be scared.

He lifts his head to look at me, his eyes searching my face. He must find something reassuring there, because a moment later he presses himself into me again, more measured this time, more intentional.

A slow burning tingle of pleasure crawls up into my gut. My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I hold eye contact with him. “Fuck.”

“What?” He pushes his weight up onto his elbows, but I keep our hips joined by pressing firmly on his arse. I’m not letting him go anywhere.

“That feels good.”

He pushes my curls off my forehead and holds them back. “For me too.”

“Do it again.”

He does, and when we rub against each other, my toes curl. I push on his bottom, urging him to continue. This time he keeps going, not stopping after one thrust but carrying on slowly over and over. I would be humiliated by how effective it is if I had any capacity left for shame, but I don’t. I think Baz is going to make me come just from a bit of dry humping, and all I can think about is how stupid I’ve been for fearing this.

I love him. I trust him. This isn’t scary. It’s just our bodies. It’s just pleasure. He’s bared his soul to me and I’ve bared mine to him. This is just an extension of all that. It’s just a physical expression of everything we’ve already shared with each other. It’s not the end all be all of our intimacy. Not even close.

My head tips back into the pillow. It feels bloody incredible. I haven’t had an orgasm in ages, which I guess means it really doesn’t take much to get me close. It doesn’t help that Baz is kissing my neck now, and holding me down with a hand on my hip. It doesn’t help that I can still feel the buzz of alcohol in my system.

I’m making noises I have no control over. I reckon if Penny’s still awake she’ll be able to hear them, but they’re honestly as irrepressible as the heaving breaths I’m taking underneath Baz as he pushes me closer and closer.

Both my hands are shoved down the back of his pants, my nails digging into his flesh. I can hear my pulse in my ears and I know it’s going to happen any moment now. The friction is nearly painful but in the best kind of way and Baz is mouthing at my neck like he means to leave a mark and the mounting pressure inside me is unbearable.

“Baz,” I choke. “Baz, I can’t— I’m gonna come.” He kisses my jaw and I say it again. “I’m gonna come.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I want you to.”

Apparently that was the last bit of reassurance I needed.

**Baz**

I’m awake when the sun rises outside Snow’s window. In truth, I’ve been awake all night. Not that there was much night left by the time we finally laid down and closed our eyes. That was only a few hours ago, really, but I’ve been awake for all of them, holding him from behind, pressing the occasional kiss to his freckled shoulder. Drinking him in and replaying the events of the night over and over to be sure I commit every tiny detail to memory.

It was the best night of my life.

Early morning light plays against his tawny skin. I look at him and it’s almost too much for me to bear; against all odds, Simon and I get to have this. We’re still here, still living and breathing, still learning how to carry on after so many forces conspired to do us in. We have a future, and we get to have it together.

He takes a deep breath in his sleep and the sound of his exhale feels poetic. I nose into the curls behind his ear and breathe in the scent of him before I let him go and climb carefully out of bed. There will be no sleep for me today, but I can leave him to a nice lie in.

I grab a pair of joggers and a shirt and head to the bathroom. A long hot shower is exactly what I need.

Bunce is stood at the counter when I finally drag myself out from under the hot spray and make my way to the kitchen in search of tea. She’s already got the kettle on, and she nods her good morning at me before grabbing down a second mug from the cupboard.

“You’re up early,” I muse, taking a seat at the small table next to the window.

She drops two tea bags into my mug and pushes her glasses up her nose. “I’ve got loads of schoolwork.” Her voice comes out scratchy and deep, and a swell of genuine affection for her rises up in my chest.

“You sacrificed a whole night’s worth of revising for him.”

I half expect her to deny it, but she doesn’t. She leans back against the counter and yawns. “Thought he might enjoy it.”

She really does look a mess. Her hair is all over the place, and she’s wearing knee socks and an oversized t-shirt, but no trousers. Not that I’m really looking, but I don’t think she’s wearing a bra. I think she may be the most self-possessed woman I’ve ever met.

“He did,” I say. “Thank you, Bunce.”

She looks a touch surprised at that. I don’t blame her. She doesn’t know how fundamentally changed I feel after the events of the last twelve hours.

“You’re a good friend,” I tell her. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“Merlin, Basilton. Don’t be so nice to me. It’s bizarre.”

“I don’t know to what you are referring,” I say coolly. “I’ve never been nice to anyone a day in my life.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Sounded like you were very nice to Simon last night.”

I refuse to be embarrassed. I’m a grown man and so is Snow. So is Bunce. I’ve had to listen to her and the American sweet talk each other through Simon’s wall countless times. There aren’t really any secrets in a flat with walls as thin as this one.

“Don’t tell him you heard,” I say. “You’ll scare him off.”

“Scare me off what?” comes a croaky voice from the kitchen entryway. Bunce and I turn in unison to see a sleepy Simon rubbing his eyes like a child.

It’s nauseatingly adorable. He’s thrown on one of my football hoodies but forgone any kind of trousers.

“What is it with everyone in this flat going bottomless all the time?” I mutter, hoping he’ll forget about the question he just asked.

Bunce tries her best at diversion as well. “Hungry, Simon?”

He nods, padding over to the table and sitting down next to me. He looks a bit like an overgrown puppy.

“Morning,” he says, privately, just for me. He reaches out and tugs on a lock of my still damp hair. “Missed you when I woke up.”

My stomach flutters— and then Bunce ruins it.

“Spare me the post coital flirting, I beg you.”

Snow’s cheeks go pink. “Oi. There was no… coitus.”

“My ears would suggest otherwise.”

I can’t believe I was nice to her, even for a moment. Simon hides his face in the crook of his elbow. “We didn’t. Not… not like—”

I clear my throat loudly, squeezing his thigh under the table. “She doesn’t need the details.”

“I really don’t,” she adds, walking over to the table and putting a mug of tea in front of each of us. “I’m glad you had a good night. But I’ve already heard more than enough.”

She starts to walk away and Snow says, “Hey, weren’t you gonna make me breakfast?”

She waves her hand in the air then disappears around the corner. “I changed my mind,” she shouts. “Lover boy can do it!”

I wait til she’s gone to say, “I can. It’s the least I can do.”

His face goes ever rosier. “I was the one who—” He cuts himself off and tries again. “You didn’t even— you know.”

“Ejaculate?” I offer.

He scrunches up his nose. “That’s horrible, don’t say that.”

I laugh as I hook my arm round the back of his neck and drag him close enough to kiss. I feel like I’m full of helium or something. Everything is right with the world. “In case you’re forgetting, I actually did,” I remind him. “I even got to do it first.” I don’t release my grip, keeping him close enough to press my forehead against his.

“Yeah, but you did all the work both times,” he mutters.

“I’m not keeping score. I don’t want you to either. Just shut up and let me make my boyfriend breakfast, yeah?”

He only manages to hold onto his pout for a moment longer. Then he’s smiling that big sunshiny Snow smile I love so much. “Will you make me scones?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Simon**

The thing about working at a coffee shop that hardly anyone ever stops into is that it’s boring. Brain meltingly boring.

It’s almost time to start closing up and the pastry case is still nearly full. Poppy is sat on the front counter with her legs hanging down, swinging her feet and hitting the wall with the heel of her flowery Doc Marten boot. I think I’m failing at entertaining her, which makes me a bit anxious since that’s really the only reason she hired me in the first place, but Baz has been texting me pretty much non stop all day and I’m finding it impossible to ignore him. He’s only been gone a day and I already miss him like mad.

As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

— _My father just asked me if I burned my neck straightening my hair. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth._

I snort. I may or may not have left him a rather prominent love bite as a souvenir to remember me by while he visits his family. Maybe I should feel bad, but I definitely don’t. If Malcolm Grimm wants to pretend I’m not dating his son, I’m certainly not going to make it any easier for him.

— _you should though_ , I text. _tell him your boyfriend can’t get enough of you. tell him the chosen one wants to eat you_

I snicker at my own obnoxiousness, and Poppy spins around to face me. “Care to share with the class?”

She’s wearing blue lipstick today. I reckon she and Penny would get along.

I shrug. “Baz is home visiting his family and his dad likes to pretend he hasn’t had a boyfriend for the past two years.”

She frowns deeply. “And that’s funny?”

I shrug again. “I guess not. I don’t know. It’s easier to laugh than to get upset about it, I suppose.”

“I can’t imagine having homophobic parents,” she says, shaking her head. “Do yours know about Baz?”

I should be used to having to deal with questions like these by now. It shouldn’t still feel like a lead brick in my gut. “I don’t have any. Baz is my only family. Baz and Penny.”

“Fuck, Simon. I’m sorry.”

I shrug. Again. “S’okay. Malcolm is nice enough, anyway. He just treats me like Baz’s mate.”

“That’s not nice,” she says bluntly. “That’s erasure. And it’s fucked up.”

To my immense relief, I get another text, which gives me an excuse to look away from where Poppy is burning holes into my brain with her eyes. She’s not wrong, I guess. I think it does genuinely upset Baz that his father still kind of refuses to acknowledge that we’re together. I think that’s why Baz stopped inviting me to come with him when he visits them. I’m a bit afraid that being relieved about that makes me a crap boyfriend. I should be there for him.

— _Mordelia just came home from her friend’s house. She bleached her hair and dyed it green. Father is trying to spell it black again and failing miserably. Perhaps this trip won’t be all bad._

— _you should bring me with you next time, I tell him._

_—I’m trying to spare you, Snow._

_—i know. but i miss you. and you shouldn’t have to deal with all that shit alone_

_—You miss me? It’s been one day._

_—who’s the one who’s been texting the other all day you big wanker_

_—Touchée_ , he texts. And then: _I’m fine, Simon. I promise._

_—tell me you miss me too_

_—I started missing you the moment I kissed you goodbye._

Something small hits my forehead and falls to the floor. I look up to see Poppy holding a handful of espresso beans and grinning at me. “Sorry,” she says, clearly not sorry at all. “Let’s close up early. No one’s coming in.”

She counts the cash and does all the more technical business stuff while I clean. It’s the most work I’ve done all day, and I actually find myself grateful to have a task. My feet hurt from standing in one place all day. She says I’ll get used to it eventually.

“Is it always this dead?” I ask her. I’ve only worked a few shifts so far.

“No. It’ll start picking up soon, actually. People out Christmas shopping and all that. And it’s busier in the morning when people are on their way to work and don’t feel like waiting in line at Starbucks or Costa.”

I finish sweeping the floor and wiping down the tables and running the few dirty dishes through the sanitizer in the back. When I report back to Poppy for my next task, she tips her head toward the pastry case, not looking up from whatever log she’s writing. “Can you deal with that?”

“Deal with it?”

“Yeah, just throw it all in a bag.”

I feel like an idiot, but I echo her again. “A bag?”

She looks up, chewing on the end of her pen. “Yeah. Just toss everything into a bag.”

“Like… a bin bag?” I look over at all the scones and muffins and biscuits I fear she’s asking me to throw away. The thought makes my chest feel tight.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” she says. “They don’t mind. They sort it out once we give it to them. I mean, it’s free food, right? They’re not gonna moan about the method of delivery.”

I frown, waiting for her to explain what the hell she’s on about. When she doesn’t, I go ahead and ask. “What the hell are you on about?”

**Baz**

Dinner with my family has never really been my favourite experience, but now that I’ve been living away from home, I’m less desensitized to its particular brand of mundane horror.

It’s nice enough to see my siblings. Mordelia is delightfully peevish and the twins seem to have grown a foot each and the baby has started talking. I don’t have a lot to say to any of them, but it’s fine. And Daphne is a perfectly lovely woman.

I suppose it’s all fine, really. It’s all very cordial. I’m doing well in my studies and I think my father more or less approves of the courses I’m taking, so that’s fine. As long as I don’t mention anything about my boyfriend or my living situation or my actual life, it’s all just fine. I won’t mention it, and they won’t ask.

It should be fine. I have no illusions about being embraced for who I really am, not by my father. It’s never worked that way. If I really need unconditional familial acceptance, I could go to Fiona for that. She’s offensive and messy and rough and abrasive, but at least I know she doesn’t care that I’m queer. She doesn’t try to pretend that I’m not a vampire. If I ask her questions about my mother, she’ll answer them. She won’t follow the Grimm tradition of repressing every unpleasant truth so deeply that it’s almost like they never existed.

It shouldn’t bother me. But it does. Maybe because I’ve never actually been happy before. An emotionally distant father who ignored the parts of my existence that displeased him was never the worst of my worries. But I’ve largely made peace with myself now, and I’ve created a life that makes me feel lucky to live it. Leaving the contentment I feel in London for stiff handshakes and superficial conversation and walking on eggshells feels worse than it ever has.

So when my mobile starts ringing and I’m mostly done eating anyway, I decide to be uncouth and excuse myself from the table to take Snow’s call. Daphne probably had a desert planned, but I’m not too bothered. Mordelia can have mine.

I close my bedroom door and spell it locked so none of the little ones can wander in later and bother me. I’m hoping to be in for a long night of listening to Simon’s voice in my ear and pining for the warmth of his skin.

“Baz,” he says by way of greeting when I answer the phone.

“Hello to you too, Snow.” I climb up onto the mattress and promptly burrow myself under the layers and layers of sheets and blankets. It’s a ridiculously overdressed bed, but at least it’s not got the bloody gargoyles that the Hampshire one did, and the extra bedding will be a nice stand in for the warm boy I normally share my nights with.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Desperate to hear about you.”

He makes a small sympathetic noise. “That bad, eh?”

“It’s fine,” I assure him. (Fine, fine, fine.) “I’d rather be there, but I’ll survive.”

“I’d rather you were here too. Or I was there.”

I feel a bit guilty for being as desperately relieved as I am that he _isn’t_ here. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“I’m well fond already,” he huffs, and I hear a door shutting heavily.

“Where are you?”

“Just got home from work.” He huffs again, and I can only assume he’s just collapsed onto the sofa.

I smile, nuzzling my cheek into my pillow. “You rang me before you even got home?”

“Shut up, I wanted to talk to you.”

“So talk.” It’s barely gone dark outside, but I’d be quite content to stay right here listening to him until he talks himself to sleep.

He sighs, and I realize belatedly that he doesn’t sound happy. I’d been so distracted by my pleasure at hearing his voice that I hadn’t registered the strain in it.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“What? Nothing. Nothing, I’m just…” He pauses. “Thinking.”

“Always dangerous,” I offer.

“I know.” He sighs again. “I used to be so good at not thinking.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking, Snow.”

“There’s just a jumble of shite in my head.”

“Tell me,” I say again.

“Poppy asked if my parents knew about you.”

I feel that one in my gut. “I’m sorry, love.”

“It’s just so weird, innit? Like, if I didn’t have you and Pen, it’d be like I don’t exist. I could disappear and no one would miss me. No one would even notice.”

“Simon.” My voice comes out stern.

“Sorry. It just made me feel weird. And then it made me think about them, about who they might have been. Or like, if they’re still out there living their lives. If they ever think about the child they didn’t want back then. If they ever feel bad for making me and then washing their hands of having to deal with me.”

I sit up in bed. “I’m coming home.”

“What? No. Baz, I’m fine, don’t be daft. I’m fine.”

“Is Bunce in the flat? I don’t want you alone right now.”

“Baz, I’m _fine_.”

“Every time you go to work with this Poppy person you come back home depressed,” I say.

“It’s not her fault she doesn’t know what sets me off. And anyway, I’m not depressed. I know what depressed feels like, remember? I’m not feeling that. I’m just… sad.”

I sag back against the pillows again. “I don’t want you to be alone when you’re sad.”

“I’m not alone. Penny’s in her room. And you’re here. Right here with me on the sofa, yeah? My feet are in your lap and you’re rubbing them. They’re so bloody fucking sore and you give the best massages.”

I smile in spite of myself, in spite of the genuine distress I feel at not being able to hold him when he’s feeling so low. “I wish I was. I wish I’d just waited until Christmas to come up here, but my father was practically accusing me of being an absentee brother.”

“Oh,” Snow says. “Christmas.” He sounds so dejected. “Right.”

He’d gone to Bunce’s for Christmas last year. He was miserable by then, firmly settled into the aftermath of what had happened exactly a year earlier. I spent Christmas here, of course, but every moment was torture knowing he was in pain and there was nothing I could do about it. Just remembering that time fills me with an awful helpless feeling.

Christmas is a confusing time for us, I suppose. Two years ago it brought us together— and then it nearly tore him apart.

“You’ll be coming with me, obviously,” I say.

“Oh.” His tone has already perked up a bit. “Really?”

“I don’t intend for us to spend any holidays apart ever again.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What if your dad doesn’t want me around?” he asks. “Bit weird to bring your mate to Christmas, especially given the fact that your whole family hates me.”

“They don’t hate you, Simon.”

He scoffs.

“Daphne is quite fond of you.”

“She doesn’t count.”

“I suppose when you say my family, what you mean is my father.”

“I guess,” he says gruffly.

“You’re not my mate, by the way,” I remind him. “I believe that was something of an important distinction for you to make to me at your coffee shop, so I feel it would be irresponsible for me not to return the favour. We’re not mates. Even if my father wants to pretend we are.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I just don’t want to make things harder for you. I can’t handle making things harder for you. I do it so often already.”

“You don’t.”

He ignores me. “Christmas is kind of horrible anyway. All it really does is remind me that I don’t have a family and I don’t properly belong anywhere. I don’t need to come up there and ruin it for you.”

“You belong,” I say forcefully. “With me. And Bunce. We’re all adults now, we get to choose our own family.”

He’s quiet a long while, and I can feel my heart splintering with every passing second.

Then he lets out a long heavy breath. “Sorry. I didn’t ring you just to feel sorry for myself, I swear.”

“It’s alright, Simon.” I hope it doesn’t come through in my voice how defeated I feel.

“Today was just weird. Poppy asking about my parents and then going to that shelter…” He trails off.

I wait for him to explain, but of course he doesn’t. He feels about a million miles away from me right now.

“What shelter?”

“Huh?”

“What shelter, Simon. What are you talking about.”

“Oh,” he says, snapping back to lucidity. “After work. Poppy took me to this youth shelter near the shop. I guess she likes to donate the leftover food instead of throwing it away.”

**Simon**

I feel like I’m the old Simon again. I can’t put words to my thoughts. I desperately wish I wasn’t having any thoughts. Everything in my head right now is a jumble of badness. I told Baz I wasn’t alone, but alone is exactly how I feel at the moment. Penny’s on the phone with Shepard; I can hear her voice through the wall. And Baz is with his family. And I have no parents, and walking into a shelter for kids who’ve been abused and abandoned kind of felt like a punch in the face.

It kind of felt like home. How fucked up is that? I felt more at home than I’ve ever felt at Penny’s family home, or Baz’s.

“How did it make you feel?” Baz asks, pulling me back into the moment. I feel like I could drift away if not for him. If not for him anchoring me to the ground, I could float up into a stormy sky of bad memories and never find my way back down again.

“Made me feel small. And angry. And sad. And lonely.”

He doesn’t try to talk me out of those feelings, which I’m grateful for. He just says, “I’m so sorry, love.”

I shuffle downwards a little so I’m laid flat on my back, my feet dangling over the arm of the sofa. I look up and watch the light from passing cars drift across the ceiling in beams of yellow. “Do you think my parents knew?” I ask quietly. “Do you think they could tell that I’d just be more trouble than I was worth?”

“No,” he says firmly. “They couldn’t have known any such thing, because it isn’t fucking true, Simon.”

I make a disbelieving noise.

“You know what I think?” he asks. “I actually think they loved you. Or your mother loved you. For all we know she was alone. I think she knew she didn’t have the capacity to give you the life you deserved, and she made the decision to give you the best chance at a future. She gave you a name. She made sure whoever took you in knew that you were Simon Snow.”

My throat is tight. I want to believe so badly in what he’s saying. I’m not sure I do, but I love him so fucking much for trying. It makes me want to weep, so I try my best for some levity instead. “It’s not like you to play the optimist.”

“I have to choose to believe that at least one of the people who made you had some good in them,” he says softly. “Seeing as you’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

“Stop trying to make me cry, you git.”

He laughs, quiet and breathy and it’s almost like he’s here with me. I wish he was. I’m not used to being apart from him anymore.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I beg. “Something happy.”

**Baz**

So we do. We talk for hours, about everything. He puts me on speaker while he makes dinner for himself and Bunce, and then as they do the washing up together. He keeps me on the phone as he brushes his teeth, garbling his words through a mouthful of foam. I don’t know what it says about me that I still understand all of it.

I melt further and further into my mattress the longer we talk. The time has turned from evening to late night and there haven't been more than a few moments lull in conversation, and even those are pleasant; little pockets of time where we sit with the quiet and listen to each other breathing.

He yawns and I hear the sheets rustling. “So weird sleeping alone again,” he murmurs. His voice has gone a touch gravelly. I should let him go, let him get the sleep he so desperately needs, but I’m greedy.

“Have you taken advantage of the privacy?”

It’s only been about a week since Simon upended my entire life by coming apart under my body. We’ve not yet done anything of the like again, but there’s scarcely been a single moment since that night that I haven’t thought about it.

If I’m expecting him to be cagey or sheepish, he certainly proves me wrong with the casualness of his tone when he says, “Yeah.”

“Oh,” I say stupidly. “Yeah? Really?”

“Mhm.”

The lack of elaboration is utterly maddening.

“Have you?” he asks.

“I have not.”

“What?” He sounds almost affronted. “Why not?”

“Uh, I mean, there’s no real reason. Just haven’t felt like it, I suppose? I’ve not had my usual inspiration for feeling…”

“Horny?” he suggests.

“Amorous,” I correct.

He laughs at me. “You’re such a posh wanker, Baz.”

“I’m literate, Snow. You don’t have to be rich to be well spoken.”

“What’s the inspiration?” he asks. “Is it me?”

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “Yes, Simon. It’s you.”

“Oh good,” he says, the smug prick. “Is it bad that you being gone hasn’t made me feel any less _amorous_?”

There’s so much to unpack with that one statement that I don’t even know where to begin. “What?”

“I don’t mean that in a bad way. Like, you’re still my inspiration. But all I have to do is think of you and it does the trick.”

I feel a stirring in the deepest parts of me. “That would imply that you were already feeling it before I left…?”

“Yeah,” he says easily.

I don’t understand when any of this became easy for him.

“Well,” I start to say. “That’s—”

“I reckon I’ve wanked at least once a day since Halloween.”

I’m stunned completely silent.

When I can’t make my mind form a single thought that isn’t picturing the glory of Simon Snow masturbating while thinking of me, he asks, “Is that too much?” suddenly sounding apprehensive.

“Crowley, Simon, no. I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t know that. I’m…”

“Inspired?” he suggests, and I can _hear_ the cheeky smile on that bastard’s face.

“Was that your aim?”

“There is no aim. I’m just talking. Just telling my boyfriend something I thought he might like to know.”

I roll over and press my face into the pillow. “I always knew you’d be the death of me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Death by arousal wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

“If I didn’t die when I watched you wank, you’re definitely not going to die just from hearing that I’m not afraid to touch myself anymore.”

“Does it feel good?”

I mean it in the emotional sense as opposed to literally, and he seems to understand that. “Yeah. It does. Thanks to you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You’ve been so bloody patient with me and done every weird thing I’ve asked.”

“You haven’t asked for anything weird, Simon.”

“I like licking your fangs, Baz. I asked you to wank for me just so I could watch.”

“And I nearly lost my fucking mind with how hot that was,” I tell him. “And I like when you lick my fangs. It makes me feel…” I trail off, rolling onto my back again and sighing. “It’s like… All my life I've kept that part of me as hidden as I possibly could. Even the people who knew pretended they didn’t. My identity was a dirty secret. Vampires killed my mother, for fuck’s sake, I never had a hope of seeing them as anything but monsters. To be the very thing that took away my innocence, that took away my chance at a happy childhood… that always felt like something I could never overcome. That self loathing was as ingrained in me as my magic. But you take a little of that away every day. Every time you stop into the butcher’s for me or lick my fangs or tell me I’m good, you help me.”

“You _are_ good,” he says softly. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

“It’s not weird to ask for what you want.” My voice comes out barely louder than a whisper.

“I want you to ask for what you want.”

I think about telling him I've already got more than I ever dreamed I could have. It would be the truth. But I understand what it means to him to say a thing like that. There was a time when what I wanted terrified him so much that it nearly cost us our relationship. Now he’s asking. He’s trusting me not to ask for too much. He’s trusting in his own progress, and that means everything to me.

If he can be brave, so can I. “I want to make you come again.”

I hear him breathe in and then out, a little slower than usual. I wish I could see his face.

“Yeah,” he says. “I want that too.”

“It was amazing.” I’m going to feel like a complete wanker if I don’t shut up now, but knowing that he liked what we did enough to want it again is intoxicating. “I loved making you feel good.”

“I want to make you feel good too.”

“You do, Simon.”

“I want to make you come.”

I close my eyes and breathe through the intensity of feeling that rushes through me.

“Do you want me to?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Whatever you want. Anything.”

He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Baz.”

“It’s true,” I insist. “I’m not being self sacrificing. This is all so new, and I’m as inexperienced with these things as you are, Snow.”

“S’not true, though.” he says gruffly. “You’ve watched porn and that.”

“Watching porn isn’t experience.”

“Well it’s still more than I’ve got, innit?”

“Have you never watched porn?” I ask. “Not even once?”

“No. There was no internet at Watford, remember? And the Mage told me I wasn’t allowed a phone during the summers either. Definitely wasn’t allowed a laptop in any of the homes. And then… well.” He clears his throat. “I suppose I could’ve when Penny and I moved into this flat. But by then I was already… you know.” There’s a pause. “Scared.”

“Ah.”

“So. Yeah. I know nothing.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” I say. I’m prepared for him to argue, so when he starts to, I cut him off right away. “You’re overthinking it, Simon.”

He huffs. “Why am I only capable of thinking too much or not at all? Why can’t I ever have some bloody middle ground.”

“Because you’re Simon Snow.”

He makes another aggravated noise. I wish I could reach through the phone and pull him close to me. I think it helps him, if that’s not too self absorbed to say. I think my presence helps him. Crowley knows his helps me.

But he’s not here, which means all I have are my words. Sometimes it feels fucking ridiculous that I’m made of magic and still so hopelessly inadequate in the moments I really need to be strong. I can pull a flame up through my palm, but I can’t find the words to make my boyfriend understand that I don’t give one flying rat’s ass if he isn’t some kind of sexual savant.

I have to keep trying, though. We’ve come too far to let it fall apart now.

“Simon.”

“What,” he grumbles.

“I want to see you naked.”

“Oh.” Pause. “What?” Pause. “You do?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

“Like… now?”

If I wasn’t trying desperately to keep him from a self hate spiral, I’d call him an idiot.

But then it occurs to me that he might have an idea, and the baser, more animalistic parts of my nature are intrigued.

“What do you mean?” I ask cautiously.

“I dunno, I mean… I could send you a photo, I guess.”

I have to jam my fist between my teeth just to stop myself from immediately saying _yes, fuck yes, get your phone out and do that immediately._

“You probably don’t want that,” he says eventually, after I’ve failed to come up with any kind of response.

“It’s not that I don’t,” I tell him. The next bit kind of pains me to say, but I say it because this isn’t just about me. “I would prefer to be with you when I see you for the first time. I want you to be able to see in my face how perfect you are.”

“Fuck, Baz. Fuck off.”

There’s something in his tone that tells me I’m allowed to laugh, so I do. “Look, I've just used up at least a year’s worth of chivalry and self control, so don’t offer me anything else or I’ll be forced to accept it.”

“When are you coming home again?”

“Tomorrow night.”

He sighs noisily. “That’s fucking forever from now.”

“It’s less than twenty four hours, Snow.”

“Yeah. Like I said.”

“I could leave now,” I offer. “If you really wanted me to.”

He’s quiet for a moment before huffing, “No, you can’t. Your siblings miss you or whatever. Ugh. Fucking Pitches, you’re pains in my ass, the lot of you.”

“They’re not Pitches,” I remind him. “They’re Grimms.”

“Whatever. They’re still a bunch of gits.”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Anyway,” he says. “You didn’t answer my question. You think you can distract me by talking about my willy, but you can’t.”

“What?” I've genuinely no idea what’s going on anymore.

“I said I wanted to make you come. You’re not gonna come just from looking at me naked.”

I cock an eyebrow, purely out of muscle memory. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Shut up.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“You’re way fitter than me. Just strip down right now and go look in a mirror. It’ll be a better time than looking at me. I’ve literally got freckles on my knob.”

The mental image those words provide shock the truth out of me before I can stop it. “I want to kiss them.”

“Oh.” Pause. “What?” Pause. “Really?”

“I want to kiss every mole and freckle on your body, Simon. If you’ve got some on your cock, that’s just a bonus.”

“Bloody hell.”

I don’t think that was a _bad_ bloody hell, but I hedge a little just in case. “Whenever you’re ready for that, of course. If you ever are.”

**Simon**

It’s just like me to press and press for something and then freak out the moment he actually gives it to me.

I mean, I’m not freaking out. Not in a bad way. I don’t think.

I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting him to say something like that. Part of me doesn’t believe it. Part of me thinks he just said the first thing that popped into his head so I’d shut up about it all.

He wouldn’t do that, though. Baz doesn’t lie to me.

Which means he wants to… Jesus Christ.

“Simon?”

Fuck, he sounds scared now. He’s never going to touch me if I freak out at him just saying the words.

“Yeah.”

“Was that too much?”

“No.”

“I wasn’t saying— I’m not saying that has to happen. I was trying to prove a point.”

“What point?”

“That you’re an imbecile.”

“What?”

“I was trying to demonstrate how utterly fucking idiotic it is for you to imply that I’d rather look at my own body than yours. I’ve been fantasizing about yours for nearly a decade.”

“So you don’t want to kiss my freckles?”

“I do. I very much do. I’ve wanted to do that for…” He sighs. “Don’t make me say it, Snow. Don’t make me pathetic.”

I grin, grateful for the opportunity to inject some humour into this conversation before my head explodes. “You don’t need my help with that.”

“I suppose I don’t.”

I frown, instantly regretting what I said. “Hey, don’t agree with me. I was taking the piss.”

“I used to watch you sleep sometimes,” he says. “Back at Watford. I used your shampoo once, just so I could keep the smell of you with me throughout the day. I grew to hate holidays because I knew it meant having to sleep in a room where I couldn’t smell your smoke. I’ve always been pathetic about you.”

**Baz**

I don’t know what possessed me to admit to any of that. I really don’t. I think all this open and honest communication is fucking with my head. I don’t know where to draw the line anymore.

It’s addictive, admitting to things I've kept buried deep down as secret shames for so many years. Knowing that he’ll hear it and still love me is freeing. It’s a safety the likes of which I didn’t even know could exist. I haven’t felt truly safe since I was a small child; probably not since the day I was Turned. I feel it now, though. Simon makes me feel that.

“I dreamed about you a lot,” he tells me. “During the summers in care. And everything reminded me of you. When the boys in the homes would play football I'd think of you. Earl grey tea because of the bergamot. Anything with vinegar because of your fucking secret crisp addiction.”

“The difference is, I’m sure, that these thoughts probably weren’t a comfort.”

I shouldn’t say things like that. I know it makes him feel guilty. I know it forces him to remember the way the Mage twisted things in his mind. I know it upsets him. But sometimes it upsets me too, remembering how deeply he hated me.

“I dunno,” he says. “I think they were, in a weird way.”

I scoff. “You don’t have to lie, Snow. I’m under no illusions about—”

“Hey Baz.”

I huff at the interruption. “What?”

“I have to go now.”

“Oh.” It’s jarring and abrupt, and I can’t help my immediate reaction being one of disappointment, but I suppose it’s fair if he’s feeling a bit cross with me now. “Alright.”

“I love you.”

That helps a little. “I love you too, Simon.”

And then he hangs up.

I pull my phone from my ear to check the time, hoping the late hour will help me trick myself into believing he had to go because he was too tired to carry on talking to me, but it’s only half eleven. Nowhere near as late as I thought it was.

Anxiety crowds into the space between my lungs, but I bite down on the urge to ring him back or send him a long rambling text. I fucked up and now I have to sit with it. He made sure to end the call reminding me that he loves me. He just needs space, and I’m mature enough to respect that, even if it makes my guts squirm.

The smart thing to do now would be to roll over and close my eyes, sleep off my mistake and start fresh tomorrow. But I know that’s not going to happen, so I go for distraction instead. I open up my camera roll and scroll to the top, to the very first photo I ever took with this mobile. It was the day Snow and Bunce moved into the London flat. Snow is stood in the kitchen holding the kettle. His mouth is open mid sentence and he’s smiling. I remember he was making tea because Bunce and I had bullied him into needing to learn to do it without magic. I know he was talking to me, but I can’t remember now exactly what it was he was saying.

He looks happy. I remember being happy that day. Watford was behind us, or so we thought. He was fragile, but he wasn’t broken. I suppose the true weight of all he’d lost hadn’t fully sunken in yet.

It was a hopeful day. It felt like the beginning of the rest of our lives. Lives we got to choose, ones in which we weren’t fighting anything anymore.

I remember I stayed over that night, sleeping next to him on a tiny foam mattress because he didn’t have a proper bed yet. It was supremely uncomfortable, but I reckon one of the happiest nights of my life. My feet dangled over the edge of the mat and he slept with his cheek on my chest.

I scroll down to the most recent photo, one I took only a few days ago. It’s of Simon, of course. All my photos are of Simon. His head is tipped back on the sofa and lolled in my direction, a look of fond exasperation on his beautiful freckled face. We were watching a film that I found to be particularly stupid, which meant of course that he was loving it. I was taking the piss every chance I could get, pointing out bad dialogue and gaping plot holes and laughing every time he told me to shut up. I was sitting sideways on the couch, my feet in his lap. He was squeezing my toes absentmindedly, probably not even aware he was doing it. The empty boxes from our late night takeaway dinner were strewn across the coffee table.

Later, we made out in bed for an hour before he fell asleep. It was a very good night.

There were a lot of moments in between that first photo and this last one where I felt like we weren’t going to make it. But we did. We did, and that comforts me enough to forgive myself for a momentary lapse of attentiveness to Snow’s emotional triggers. Tomorrow I’ll apologize, and he’ll say there’s no need for it, and our life together will continue. I’ll arrive home to find him waiting for me. He’ll kiss me and I’ll tell him I’m never leaving again. He’ll continue to take my breath away with his beauty and his courage. I’ll take more photos.

I put my phone on the bedside table and slip out from beneath my warm cocoon of blankets and head to the kitchen. The house is quiet, the lights are off. It’s peaceful, if a little lonely, but I don’t think I’d know what to do with myself if the house my father lived in didn’t feel a little lonely.

I open the fridge and dig out the thermos of blood I’d shoved to the very back when I first arrived. Daphne saw me do it, but she pretended she didn’t. That’s how things go around here.

I pull it out and pour it all out into a pot. It tastes nicer heated up on the stove than in the microwave. I usually don’t do it because the smell wafts more this way, but there’s no one else around at the moment. I can indulge.

Ten minutes later I’m sat on the counter in the dark sipping my midnight snack when the light switches on and my eldest little sister is stood in the entryway to the kitchen. Her hair is still green despite her parents’ attempts to erase the evidence of her little act of pre-preteen rebellion, probably because she did it the old fashioned way. There was no magic to reverse.

“It smells like something died in here,” she says.

I hold up my mug. “It was already dead.” I know she won’t know what that means. She may act like a know-it-all teenager, but she isn’t one yet. The secret of my vampirism is held by Malcom, Daphne and Fiona alone. And Snow and Bunce, of course. And lots of other people, I suppose. Lamb. Shepard. Nicodemus.

Fuck. Maybe my siblings are the only ones who don’t know.

She crinkles her nose and says, “You’re weird.” I feel an inexplicable spike of affection for her.

“Why are you up?” I ask.

“Hungry, same as you.”

“Actually, I’m up because I was on the phone with Snow.”

She pulls a tupperware out of the fridge and then looks at me. “Simon Snow? The Chosen One?”

I cringe internally, glad he isn’t around to hear her call him by that old moniker. “Yes.”

“It’s so strange that he’s your mate.” She opens the lid of the tupperware and starts eating something that appears to be cake straight from the container with her fingers.

“Actually,” I say slowly, holding the warmth of my mug with both hands so she can’t see that they’re just a touch shaky at what I’m about to tell her. “He’s my boyfriend.”

She stops chewing, looking at me with piercing eyes so dark they look black. “You have a boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Huh,” she says, then goes back to her cake. “Weird.”

I have the bizarre urge to gather her into my arms and squeeze her. Instead I stretch out my leg to nudge her with the tip of my big toe. “Oi,” I say, the word tasting foreign on my tongue. Snow’s chavvy vernacular is rubbing off on me, apparently. “Let us have some of that.”

She rolls her eyes but walks over to me and holds out the container. I scoop out some cake with my fingers and we eat like cavemen in comfortable silence before heading our separate ways.

My siblings’ bedrooms are all upstairs, as is Malcolm and Daphne’s, but mine is on the ground floor. It’s the smallest one in the house, designated for me because I spend only a few days here a few times a year. It doesn’t bother me. I never cared for the palatial nature of my Hampshire bedroom.

I stop into the bathroom to brush my teeth and take a quick shower. Once I’ve gone back to my room and moisturized every inch of my skin and put on pajamas and spelled my hair dry, I really have no more excuses not to crawl into bed and try to sleep.

I sit on the edge of my mattress and make the decision to check my phone one more time. My heart jumps when I see a message from Snow.

— _you should look at the sky right now, it looks incredible. it reminds me of that day i gave you my magic and you brought the stars into our room. go right now and look._

I go to the window and push the pane up. It’s an old house, and no one ever bothered putting screens behind the glass, so nothing separates me from the cold November air. Nevertheless, I stick my head out the window and look up, and the sky does indeed look incredible. The moon is a thin glowing crescent of light against the inky black backdrop of midnight. The stars aren’t out the way they were the day I had Simon’s magic flowing through me, though. I don’t think I’ll ever see a sky as beautiful as the one he inspired me to conjure.

I love that he’s thinking of that day. I love that he sees a gorgeous sky and wants to share it with me. I shiver as I type out a message for him.

— _It’s beautiful. I wish we were looking at it together._

 _—we are, in a way,_ he texts back _. we’re both looking at the same sky_

_—I suppose we are._

_—will you do something for me and not ask why?_

I don’t have to think about my answer.

— _Anything._

_—leave your window open tonight_

I do.


	11. Chapter 11

**Baz**

There’s something cold touching my skin. Cold as ice, colder than the cold air that’s been coming in through my window all night. I piled a mountain of blankets over myself before I fell asleep. I should be warm, but there’s a chill travelling up my body with a feathery light touch. Almost like fingers. It traces over my ribs and up my neck to my cheeks and then there’s cold on my mouth. There’s a weight on top of me, heavy, familiar.

As far as dreams go, it’s not the worst. Snow is kissing me. I don’t know why he’s frozen. Usually he’s hot. But the kiss is the same, the way he moves his chin and uses his tongue to taste me. I shiver and it’s as much about the breathy noise he makes when I touch his back as it is about his wintry fingers.

His back isn’t cold, and he’s not wearing a shirt. I slide my hand down to his ass and there’s no clothing there either.

“Baz,” he breathes and it’s so real.

It’s so real.

I open my eyes and he’s there. He’s here, naked in my bed with freezing cold hands touching me all over. Like he hasn’t seen me in ages. Like he hasn’t appeared out of thin air in a place he shouldn’t be.

“Simon?”

He nods, and he’s everywhere, the smell of him, the feel of his skin, the warmth of his breath on my face.

“How are you here?” I whisper.

“I needed you. I couldn’t wait.”

I run my hands up to the back of his head, tangling my fingers into his hair. “Are you really here?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were angry.”

He fits his face into the crook of my neck. “No. Got tired of talking about things I wanted to do and not actually doing them.” His lips are warmer now as he kisses up to my ear.

“Are you naked?”

He doesn’t answer me with words. What he does is tug up on the bottom of my shirt. I lift my arms and he pulls it off, then immediately sticks his thumbs under the band of my pants and pulls them and my pj bottoms down all in one go. They stay pooled around my ankles for a moment before he uses his feet to push them off completely.

He lays himself down on top of me and I don’t need to wonder if he’s naked. I can feel that he is. And he isn’t cold anymore. The blankets are pulled over our heads, trapping the heat from his body and shutting us out from the outside world. It’s just the two of us, and I’m still not entirely convinced it isn’t all in my head. I feel hazy, half asleep.

“Can I keep you?” I whisper. It’s daft, but I can’t seem to make my brain work properly. I try for something that makes a little more sense. “Are you staying here with me?”

“Yeah. Please. I can sneak out in the morning.”

“No.” I open my legs a little so I can squeeze his hips with my thighs. His cock is soft and warm where it touches me, and it’s almost painfully ironic that the first time we’re fully nude together, I’m not thinking about sex. I just want to hold him. I’m still reeling that he’s even here at all.

“No?” he asks.

“No.” I kiss the spot just above his eyebrow. “We’re not sneaking. We’ve got nothing to hide.”

“I’m not trying to make things more complicated for you. I just wanted to see you.”

“It’s not complicated, Simon.” I run my hands down his back, over his ass, and back up. “It’s not.”

**Simon**

His hands on my bare skin feel incredible, leaving a warm tingle in their wake. His bedroom is practically arctic, but under his blankets with our bodies pressed together it’s warm. I closed the window after I climbed in and left my clothes in a heap at the foot of his bed.

This is probably the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done, and that’s really fucking saying something. I just couldn’t bear the way his voice changed when he called me out on the motives of my obsession back in the Watford days. He wasn’t wrong, entirely. At the time my preoccupation with thoughts of him over the summers felt like some kind of curse, but they were comforting in their own way. He made it all real, the world of mages and the way I fit into it. I could have never imagined someone like Baz. He was my tether to the only world I’d ever even halfway belonged.

I couldn’t go to sleep tonight knowing he was thinking of those days. I knew there’d be no peace for either of us, even if we both know that the journey we took to get to where we are today was rocky. I was already fragile thinking about my parents. There’s only so much I can take, and I decided if I was going to be awake all night anyway, I might as well find my way to the only person who could make me feel better.

It took a long time and a lot of money, two ubers and a train and a walk long enough that it left my fingers frozen and my already tired legs stiff and achy. I used up pretty much the entirety of my first paycheck from Poppy’s. But I made it. Thank Merlin for google maps. And he’d left his window open just like I asked him to, even though he runs cold on the best of days.

I can’t believe I’m here. I don’t think he can believe it either, even though there is literally nothing separating us now, not even underwear.

I had big plans. I had hours and hours to think about exactly what I was going to do when I crawled into his bed. Brave plans. Sexy ones.

And this _is_ sexy. My bits are pressed up against his and he keeps running his hands over my arse and he smells clean and spicy and warm like tea and cedar. But there’s no urgency now that I’m here. I have him, and all I really want to do is kiss him slowly and lazily until we both fall asleep. It’s been an exceptionally long day and I’m dead tired.

He’s not hard, so maybe he feels the same way. Maybe the closeness is enough.

I think I’ve made him happy. His hands haven’t stopped stroking over my skin wherever he can reach it and he keeps pressing his mouth against my face. He told me to stay. I can’t imagine how bloody awkward it’s going to be in the morning with his family, but if he doesn’t care, then why should I?

“This is an actual teenage Baz fantasy come to life.” He gets a handful of my arse and squeezes it. “I used to think about something like this happening. You crawling into my bed in the middle of the night and touching me. I imagined we wouldn’t talk about it but it would keep happening because you just couldn’t stay away.”

“I didn’t know,” I murmur. “I genuinely had no idea. I thought… well.” I press a kiss to his chest. “I thought a lot of things that turned out not to be true, didn’t I?”

“I wish I hadn’t been such a good actor.”

“I do too. But we can make up for it now, yeah?”

He nods. “Thank you, Simon. Thank you for coming.”

My eyes have fallen shut. It’s dark and warm and his mouth is like velvet when he kisses me back. I get a hand round the back of his neck and pull him onto his side as I roll onto mine. We’re lying down facing each other, still attached at the lips, still pressed together. He puts his hand on my hip.

“Are you tired?”

I nod.

“Can I hold you while you sleep?”

“You don’t need to ask,” I say, but my words come out heavy and slurred together.

“Turn over, love,” he whispers, and I do. He drapes his arm over my waist and I reach down to take his hand and hold it against my chest. It’s the most I can manage before sleep takes me, but it’s enough.

-

I’m woken by a loud knocking and a child shouting, “Baz! Stop sleeping! It’s morning now, morning is for waking up!”

It can’t be Mordelia, the voice is too young. Has to be one of the twins, then, whose names I can never remember no matter how many times Baz reminds me.

Baz groans, but before he can say anything, we hear Daphne shushing her daughter. “Octavia, let your brother sleep. He’ll get up when he’s ready.”

Baz and I appear to have switched places sometime in the night. My chest is plastered against his back, and as I come to a little more I’m embarrassed to discover we’re stuck together by a thin sheen of sweat that can only be mine. To be fair, there are probably four blankets piled on top of us.

My arm is draped over his waist, just as his was draped over mine last night. I tighten my grip a little, giving his stomach a squeeze.

“Hell of an alarm clock,” I croak.

He groans again, nudging himself back against me. “Little sisters are a bleeding curse.”

I’d somehow forgotten that we’re both stark fucking naked until Baz presses his bare bum against my crotch. My stomach flips at the reminder.

“I think it’s a bit cute, actually,” I say. I lean in and press a kiss to the side of Baz’s neck.

He arches into it, sighing.

“What are your siblings' names again?”

“Mordelia, Octavia, Persephone and Aurelius,” he says. “Yes they’re ridiculous names, and no, I don’t want to talk about them right now.”

“None of those are as bad as Tyrannus,” I whisper right into his ear.

“Piss off.” There’s no conviction in his tone. He’s completely melted into me, his hand wrapped very loosely around my wrist.

It’s quiet now; Baz’s sister must have found someone else to verbally accost. Baz’s breathing is slow, his shoulder rising and falling minutely. There’s a tension in the air, and I can’t imagine he isn’t wondering whether or not I’m going to backtrack on the uncharacteristic decisiveness I showed by pulling his clothes off in the middle of the night.

I really don’t want to backtrack. I’m not sure that I can follow through on all the things I had in my head while I was on the train, but I’m certainly not in any rush to get up and get dressed.

The quiet feels too fragile to break with something as rough as my voice, so I lean in and kiss his shoulder instead. I want him to know that I’m exactly where I want to be. He lets out one audible breath, but otherwise stays still. It’s clear that whatever’s about to happen is going to happen on my terms, at my pace. He’s making sure of that, and I both love and hate him for it.

I’m a lot more clear headed than I was last night, even after only sleeping a few hours. My apprehensions and insecurities feel a lot closer to the surface than they did in the dark while riding a wave of adrenaline from the incredibly spontaneous journey I made to get here. Still, I love this. The closeness, his cool skin tempering my warmth. The smell of his hair when I nose in behind his ear. I splay my hand against his stomach, pressing gently against the definition of the muscle there.

He seems to like that. I feel him flex beneath my fingers. This bloody fit wanker, with his abs and his thighs. It shouldn’t be allowed for one person to be as good looking as he is. I’d be gone for him either way. The athleticism and aristocratic cheekbones and shiny hair and all of it— it’s just an excessive amount of overkill.

I run my hand up to his chest and leave it there, feeling the slow rhythm of his breaths and the even slower beat of his heart.

**Baz**

I don’t need more than this. I could happily lie here forever, pressed back against Simon Snow’s naked body while he touches my chest and stomach, while he breathes warm against my neck and rubs the occasional thumb over my nipple.

I’m hard, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to touch me there. I don’t expect him to. I’m not waiting for it.

When he slides his hand all the way down to scratch his fingers against the hair that’s now been properly trimmed, all those thoughts go up in flames. I want him to touch me. I _need_ him to touch me. I’m waiting, Aleister fucking Crowley I’m waiting, biting my lip and holding my breath as he touches all around the one spot that’s aching for him.

He rubs a finger into the crease between my thigh and pelvis and I think I break the skin on my bottom lip. I hadn’t even noticed that my fangs had popped.

The taste of my own blood really does nothing for me. I wonder what would happen if I tried to drink from another vampire. I wonder how my blood differs in composition to Snow’s. What makes his intoxicating while my own just tastes like rust and salt?

I shouldn’t think about Snow’s blood. Not when my canines are out and my own blood is coursing thickly through my body. Not when I’m thirsting for him in more ways than one. I grab my wand from under my pillow and heal my lip quickly. It seems clear that my saliva isn’t venomous, but blood is unexplored territory, and I’m really hoping he’ll kiss me some more.

He takes my wand and puts it back under the pillow. Then he touches me, and it’s nothing like I’m expecting.

His grip is firm and blunt. It’s confident, all his fingers wrapped around me. It’s like fire, the heat of it. It’s going to burn me alive.

**Simon**

It’s not scary. All this time I’d built it up and up into something insurmountable, but it’s just Baz. And I’m in love with him. Making him happy is my favourite thing in the world. This isn’t scary. It’s easy.

I move my hand like I would if I were doing this to myself. I’ve gotten more familiar with that particular movement over the course of the last week. I’m not surprised at the soft noises Baz makes, or the tight grip he’s got on my forearm as I stroke him. I love it, but it makes sense.

The real surprise is what touching Baz is doing to me.

**Baz**

He’s hard. I can feel it clearly, because it’s nestled right in the cleft of my ass cheeks. It's so unspeakably sexy that I have to push his hand off me.

He goes stiff. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I reach up to push my hair from my face. “I’m just not ready for it to be over.”

He huffs a breath of laughter against the back of my neck and presses his lips to the knob of bone at the top of my spine. “Already?”

“I’m too aroused to be embarrassed by my lack of stamina, Snow. Try taking the piss later.”

“I’m not taking the piss.” There’s so much light in his voice, such weightlessness. “I’m flattered.”

“You should be. You’re killing me.”

He kisses up my neck painfully slowly, lips smacking every time he pulls away from my skin. When his mouth reaches my jaw he uses his hand to push under my chin. I twist my head to the side and kiss him, and it’s so good that the rest of my body turns with me. I roll him onto his back and climb up on top of him, chasing his lips and tongue for more.

We kiss for ages. I’m sat on his lap and every so often we rub up against each other and steadfastly ignore it except to gasp a little at the sensation it elicits. His hands are on my hips. I’m starting to feel a little unhinged.

“Baz,” he says, and it’s like he can read my mind. “Can I touch you yet?”

I’m about to cry with relief and tell him yes when an idea occurs to me.

**Simon**

“Can we try something?” he asks, and I’m far enough gone that I only panic a little, and only on the inside.

“Yeah.”

He reaches down, picks up my hand and licks over my palm. It’s hot, to be sure, but I don’t understand what he’s doing until he reaches under his pillow and pulls out his wand.

Actually, I still don’t fully understand.

He points it at my palm and casts “ _ **Slippery when wet**_ ,” and suddenly my whole hand is slick.

This is when I think I understand, but he’s about to prove me wrong.

He guides my hand down, but when I try to wrap it around him again, he shakes his head and says, “Not yet.” He holds his own palm up in front of my face. “Lick.”

I do, and he casts the spell again. Then he looks dead into my eyes. “Can I touch you?”

I forget to answer. His eyes are steely and flecked with green and there’s a hint of colour in his cheeks. I can see the hickey I left on his neck a few days ago. It’s starting to fade, but still clearly visible. He could have dealt with it in a matter of seconds; a simple _**Get well soon** _would’ve done the trick. But he didn’t. I guess he wanted to keep it.

“Simon?”

My eyes snap back up to his face. “Yes. Yeah. Touch me.”

He does, and right away I can tell that whatever I was doing to him was brutish in comparison. He has the most elegant hands, and he knows how to use them.

My head tips back into the pillow. He’s so, so good. Somehow it’s so much better than wanking. Now I understand why he was so close so quick. I won’t last more than a few minutes of this.

“You look incredible,” I hear him say, but I can’t open my eyes. I can’t look at him or it’ll all be over and I don’t want it to be over yet. “You’re so gorgeous, Snow.”

I throw my arm over my eyes. It’s too much. I wasn’t built to experience this kind of pleasure.

At some point I feel his dry hand wrap around my wrist and guide my hand to his cock, which is somehow the hottest thing that’s happened so far. He wants me, he really does. He doesn’t care that I’m heavy handed and graceless. He doesn’t care that I made him wait for years.

I try to do a good job, but it’s simply not possible. I can’t focus on much of anything when every nerve ending in my body is ascending to heights of sensation I never knew existed. The best I can do is give him a warm fist to roll his hips into, which he somehow manages to do without throwing off the rhythm of his hand on me even in the slightest.

“Baz,” I whimper helplessly, not sure what I can say to communicate how overwhelmed I am.

When he leans down to kiss me, I come.

**Baz**

I’m alarmed when Snow starts to cry, silent tears rolling halfway down his temples before he swipes them away.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, sorry.”

“Are you—”

“I’m fine.” He tightens his grip on me, and I feel distinctly shameful at how turned on I am still. “Keep going, Baz,” he says, squeezing. “Please.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Baz,” he says with more conviction. “I’m fine. I am.”

I frown. His eyes are still wet.

“I want to do this.” He rubs my thigh soothingly. “You have to trust me.”

If there were only a few words that could have convinced me, those were the ones. He reaches up and hooks his hand around the back of my neck, pulling me down to kiss him again. I feel the mess he made, warm and viscous where his stomach touches mine. It’s filthy and intimate and it helps get me right back to the edge within a matter of minutes.

“I love this,” he whispers into my hair.

Any coordination he once had is long gone. I’m humping into his hand as much as he’s stroking me. Moisture leaks from his eyes but I know now they’re not tears of sadness. Salt blooms on my tongue as I kiss them away, and I whisper back that I love it too right before I come.

**Simon**

The sweat that clings to me isn’t a thin sheen anymore, and the mess on my stomach is smeared and sticky and horrible.

Baz reads my mind and casts “ _ **Clean as a whistle**_ ,” over both of us. Normally I hate that, but right now the fiery sweep of magic over my twitchy-limp body feels nice, like I’ve been burned new.

I feel new. Like a new man or some daft shite like that. I’m not going to say it out loud, and I hope Baz doesn’t ask, but I cried because up until it finally happened, I thought I might not be capable of it. That I’d be broken forever, too scared of what I wanted to let myself have it. But I’ve come against his body twice now, and I know it isn’t a fluke. He’s seen me naked and it didn’t kill me.

I’m relieved. I guess that’s what this feeling is. That’s what the tears were. I really wish I hadn’t cried the first time we touched each other properly, but he already knows I’m a mess and still fancies me anyway.

We’re lying next to each other now, both on our backs. He turns his head to look at me and asks, “Are you alright?”

I nod, rolling over to press my forehead against his bicep. “That was a lot.”

“It was incredible.”

There’s absolutely no way I can doubt his sincerity, not even if I really dig down into all my deeply set insecurities. His face is filled with reverence when I tilt my head up to look at him.

“Yeah,” I say. “It was.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, you idiot.” I shuffle up a bit so I can bite his chin. “I wasn’t doing you a favour.”

“Thank you for trusting me.”

Fuck. My throat feels tight again. “Thank you for trusting _me_. I know I make it a lot harder than you do.”

He turns over to face me, reaching up and tucking a curl behind my ear. “You don’t make anything hard, Simon. Loving you is the easiest thing in the world.” Then he kisses me, lips parted slightly, slow and deliberate and a feeling washes over me like he’s cast a calming spell.

“D’you reckon it’ll always feel like this?” I murmur.

“I hope so,” he whispers back, fingers combing up into the hair at the back of my head. His thumb rests on the side of my neck, right against the pulse point. My blood beats against him. It makes me shiver.

“Baz.”

“What, love?”

He sounds drunk. I feel drunk.

I reach up to push his thumb a little more firmly against my throat. “Would you bite me?”

I’m expecting an immediate refusal, but it doesn’t come. He dips his face down and moves his hand, pressing his lips against my carotid, parting them to lick over the pulsing artery.

Fuck me. Fuck my entire life. I think he’s going to do it.

**Baz**

He’s never smelled more rich and inviting than he does now. He’s full of oxytocin and endorphins and he’s asking for it. For reasons I couldn’t even begin to comprehend, he wants this. He wants me to do the thing I've been holding back from doing for years.

It’s not the right thing to do. As much as I want to, as good as it would feel, nothing is worth the risk I’d be taking. Simon Snow is alive, so gorgeously, maddeningly alive, and I’d die for real before I took that away from him.

I can practically taste the iron as I lick over his pulse. I hear his breath hitch. He cups the back of my head and sighs.

“Simon, I can’t.”

“You can. I want you to.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you. And you’re not a monster.”

It’s getting harder to form coherent thoughts. My fangs have slid down, and Snow’s got a bracing hand on my hip while the other holds my head in place. It’s gentle. He’d let me go if I told him to.

“I might Turn you. We don’t know that I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t think you will.”

I pull back. He lets his hand drop.

He answers the question I don’t need to ask. “I don’t know why I think you won’t. I just… feel it. It feels like something we’re supposed to do. Does it not feel like that for you?”

“Of course it does for _me_ ,” I say quietly.

I don’t tell him just how much of an understatement that is. I don’t tell him that right now my desire to taste him is so acute it’s actually painful, a dull throbbing in my gums and an ache in my stomach. Every instinct draws me nearer to him. He’s a magnet and he’s pulling me in.

“I’m telling you that it does for me too.”

“Simon, the risk—”

“Sod the risk. Life is risk. Especially ours, and we’ve beaten the odds against a lot more than this.”

I look at him helplessly. “Please.”

“You really don’t want to?”

I’m trying to retract my fangs, but they won’t go.

“I got bitten as a baby,” I say. “And it Turned me. That was all it took. One bite.”

I can tell this is what finally lands for him. “Okay.” His expression softens, and he leans in to kiss me. His tongue curls up to push against the point of a fang, and then he pulls back. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want this life for you. I love you too much to do that to you just for the fleeting pleasure it would bring me.”

“All pleasure is fleeting,” he says, and the resignation in his tone breaks my heart.

“That’s not true.” I catch his hand as he tries to roll away from me. “Simon, that’s not true. This isn’t fleeting.”

“Would you hate me if you accidentally Turned me?” he asks. “Would I disgust you?”

“Of course not.”

“You’re a good person, Baz.” His eyes are burning bluer than I've ever seen them. “Being a vampire doesn’t make that any less true.”

**Simon**

I wish I wasn’t so fucking terrible with words. I wish I knew how to explain to him that it feels like the next step. It feels important for us, but also normal, like moving in together or saying I love you or having sex. He’s a vampire and I’m not. He drinks blood and I’ve got extra. I want to feel that closeness. I want to make him feel good. I want him to internalize the truth: that he’s good, that he is who he is and there’s absolutely nothing unnatural about it.

I don’t want him to have to spend the entirety of his life craving something he thinks he can’t have, when it’s something I could so easily give him.

He presses his forehead against mine and closes his eyes. “If I knew for sure we could do it safely…”

“Nothing is ever for sure,” I say, trying to be gentle. “Nothing is ever truly safe.”

His breath is cool on my face. That’s something I don’t think I’ll ever really get used to, and I love that. I love all the little things that remind me how different he is. How special. It seems fucking absurd to me now that I ever believed he was the same class of vampire as the ones the Mage set loose on a nursery full of children.

Baz Pitch is in a class all his own. He always has been. There’s just no one else like him.

“I wish you could see inside my head,” I tell him.

“What would I see?”

Before I can answer, there’s more pounding on the door.

“Baz!” The sheer volume is overwhelming, especially coming from such a small human. “Wake up! Mummy’s making pancakes!”

Then comes Daphne’s voice, more muffled, presumably because she’s in the kitchen making the breakfast her daughter is so eager to spread the word about. “Octavia! I told you to leave your brother alone!”

“It’s alright,” Baz shouts back. “I’m getting up.”

My heart immediately starts up a nervous flutter. “You are?” I whisper.

“ _We_ are, Snow.” He smiles, then pulls us both up to sitting. “You heard the little gremlin. Mummy’s making pancakes.” He smacks a wet kiss right in the center of my forehead and then scoots out of bed.

For a moment I forget about everything, because Baz is still naked and he’s doing absolutely nothing to shield himself from my eyes. Not that he should, of course. It’s just not an ease I’m used to seeing from him. It’s incredibly distracting.

I watch him open his wardrobe and peruse his outfit options leisurely. I watch him pull on pants and jeans. He fluffs his hair out after putting on a light grey jumper that fits him like a glove and I have an out of body moment where everything feels too safe and settled and good to be true.

“Baz.”

He turns and looks at me over his shoulder. I just look back at him, because I don’t actually have anything to say.

“Come on,” he says softly, reaching his hand out for me. “Let’s get you dressed.”

**Baz**

Simon Snow looks unforgivably gorgeous in my clothes. I had to spell them to fit properly, and fit properly they surely do now. There’s a special place in my heart for his joggers and hoodies, but seeing him in a shirt with buttons feels like a special occasion indeed.

He’s bricking it, I can tell. His pulse is strong and quick, and I don’t blame him. Even I’m feeling a little apprehensive as we walk slowly down the hall to the kitchen. I’d like to reach for his hand, but I’m not sure how he wants to play this. I probably should have told him what I said to Mordelia last night.

I can hear the twins pestering their mother, and the scent of frying batter is so strong I’m sure Snow can smell it too. I hope that’s a bit of comfort. Even if his sudden presence makes things awkward, at least he’ll be able to eat. Daphne loves feeding people and Simon loves being fed. They get along just fine.

Obviously my father is a harder nut to crack. So hard, in fact, that I haven’t figured it out yet. Not that I really care to anymore. He had fifteen years worth of chances to step up and he chose not to.

I’m being dramatic, but fuck it, that’s what I do best. I don’t like the way Simon is chewing his lip to try to mask how terrified he is. He’s the love of my life, he shouldn’t be terrified of spending time with my family. He shouldn’t be made to feel anything but welcome.

Suddenly Aurelius comes barreling out of the kitchen on his endearingly stubby little legs and runs right into Snow. He falls back onto his bottom and looks up at the curly headed obstacle that is my visibly anxious boyfriend and I wince, waiting for the crying that is surely about to commence.

But then Simon crouches down to get on my brother’s level. “Hiya, little man. Alright?”

Aurelius nods, eyes wide, truly like a deer in headlights. Of course he’s seen Simon a few times before, but he’s only three years old, so it’s entirely possible he sees Snow as a complete stranger. Honestly, he still kind of looks at me like that, too.

Simon smiles, and it looks real, not just something he plastered on to keep the kid from having a meltdown. “Is your mum making pancakes?”

At this Aurelius smiles and nods.

“Ah, that’s brilliant. I love pancakes. D’you reckon she’d make some for me too?”

Aurelius springs up from the floor suddenly and grabs Snow’s hand, pulling him toward the kitchen. Snow looks at me with a mix of amusement and fear and I shrug as if to say, _might as well get this over with_.

I shouldn’t be surprised that Simon is good with children. He’s good with people, and children are people, even if they sometimes behave more like drunk puppies or rabid badgers. The real surprise is the way it warmed me to see him putting care into an interaction with a member of my family. I love my siblings, but I’ve never considered myself overly attached to them, and I’ve certainly never once entertained the idea of having children of my own some day, but still it makes my heart twinge to see Aurelius’ chubby little fingers wrapped around one of Simon’s.

Daphne’s back is turned when we enter the kitchen. She’s facing the stove, hard at work making the mythical pancakes, so she doesn’t see at first that her son has dragged in a person who shouldn’t technically be here.

It’s Octavia who makes Snow’s presence known to my stepmother. Bluntly.

“Why is _he_ here?” She shouts it, because she shouts everything. It’s ungodly.

Daphne turns quickly, and let it never be said that this woman isn’t adaptable. Her face registers maybe one millisecond of confusion before shifting into welcoming hostess mode. “Oh, Simon. What a lovely surprise.”

“Morning Mrs. Grimm.” He gives her a nod, golden curls flopping into his eyes. Aurelius is still holding onto him. “Sorry for showing up unannounced.”

It doesn’t escape my attention that he doesn’t actually give her a reason for showing up unannounced, and I like that. He could have made up an excuse, but chose not to. I wonder if that speaks as loudly to Daphne as it does to me.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “You’re always welcome.”

I believe it coming from her. And then my father walks into the kitchen.

**Simon**

Being around Baz’s father kind of reminds me why I used to be afraid of Baz. Malcolm Grimm is basically all the intimidating aspects of Baz’s personality without any of the warmth. But where Baz had a secret soft spot for me, his father seems still to carry nothing but contempt.

He always calls me Mr. Snow, even though I remind him every time I see him that he can call me Simon, and whenever he is forced to address me he says it like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

I guess he’ll never forgive me for sucking the magic out of Hampshire. He can get in fucking line, because I’m not likely to forgive myself for that either, nor any of the other holes created by my lack of control. And anyway, it’s not like I didn’t go and defeat the fucking greatest threat to magic the world of mages has ever known right afterwards, is it?

Of course, I was also kind of the source of the greatest threat to magic the world of mages has ever known, but still. I gave it all back. I didn’t keep any for myself. And I killed his worst enemy. I basically fought his war for him, and still he looks at me like I’m some kind of cockroach.

I suppose a lot of that could be that fact that I’m shagging his son. I wonder what burns him up more, that fact that I used to be the Mage’s Heir, or the fact that I make it extremely difficult for him to ignore that _his_ heir happens to be unwaveringly homosexual.

It was almost funny the look on his face when he first came into the kitchen. He stared at me wordlessly for a solid ten seconds before turning his glare on Baz.

“Good morning, father,” Baz had said in that maddeningly cool voice he used to use whenever I raged on him. “You remember Simon.”

I choke back a nervous laugh. Remember, the bloke you and your sister in law wanted dead for years? The child you would’ve had little problem steamrolling over in your attempt to take back power from the Mage?

Remember the bloke you once walked in on with his tongue in your son’s mouth?

(That was over a year ago now, but the horror of the encounter has scarred me for life, I’ve no doubt about it.)

He’d nodded, his expression schooled neutral. “Mr. Snow. Quite a surprise to see you here.”

His words were so similar to Daphne’s, and yet the tone they imparted couldn’t have been more different.

“Hello sir,” was all I could say. I won’t make any excuses for being here. He knows what I am to Baz, and I refuse to help him deny it, no matter how much he may scare me.

We’re all at the dining room table now, plates of pancakes and mugs of tea in front of us. Mr Grimm isn’t eating, and I’m shovelling breakfast down like I’ll never see food again. I know Baz hates it when I eat like an animal, but I can’t seem to help it. The more anxious I am, the harder I retreat into all my bad habits.

Being here makes me feel like a kid again, like a child with no home who’ll never belong anywhere. I feel like an urchin, so I start to act like one.

And then there’s something touching my thigh under the table, and I don’t need to look to know it’s Baz. I reach down and squeeze his fingers and genuinely don’t care if anyone sees.

Someone does see: one of the twins, I’m still not sure which is which. She’s sat next to Baz and isn’t anywhere near old enough to understand that some questions are best left unasked. She looks at her brother and, with a half chewed mouthful of pancake garbling her words, asks, “Why are you holding his hand?”

I think my heart stops for a moment, but I don’t snatch my hand away. My eyes find Baz’s and he looks cool as ever.

Before either of us can answer, Mordelia does it for us: “Because he’s Baz’s boyfriend.”

My first instinct is to look at Mr. Grimm. I wish it wasn’t. He looks as pale as Baz.

“But Baz is a boy,” says the other twin.

Mr. Grimm’s jaw is set so tight I’m kind of worried he’s going to grind his teeth into dust. I can see the muscles in his temple shifting.

“Boys can have boyfriends,” Baz says. “And girls can have girlfriends.”

“It’s called _gay_ , Persephone,” Mordelia says with a distinct know-it-all attitude that reminds me of Baz when we first started at Watford. “Don’t you know anything?”

“Mordelia,” Daphne says reproachfully. “She’s five.”

“It’s not a dirty word,” Baz says. “It’s not going to traumatize her.”

Daphne gives him a look like her son gave me when he ran into me earlier: wide-eyed, slack jawed, momentarily stunned. I want to disintegrate. I want to sprout wings just so I can fly away from this horror.

“I didn’t—” she stammers. “That’s not—”

“I think that’s quite enough,” Mr. Grimm says firmly.

I’m about ready to piss my fucking pants, but none of the Grimm children seem remotely bothered. One of the twins looks at Baz and asks, “Do you two kiss each other like mummy and daddy do?”

I feel like I might sick, but Baz actually smirks. “Sometimes.”

My face must be red as a fucking beet.

“Which one of you is the mummy?”

“It doesn’t really work like that, Octavia,” Baz says, clearly amused despite the fact that his father looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. “You have to have a child to be a mummy. But even if we did have children, neither of us would be a mummy. We’d both be daddies.”

“Basilton.” Mr. Grimm pushes his chair back from the table and stands up. “A word.”

**Baz**

He leads me to his office. It’s on the other side of the house, pretty much as far from the dining room as he could get us without taking me up to his and his wife’s bedroom to chew me out.

Because that’s what this is, obviously. He’s going to scold me like a child even though I haven’t been one for a very long time. I haven’t truly been a child since my mother died, and he hasn’t earned the right to chastise me for simply living my life.

(I keep telling myself this as I stare at the back of his head. I’m not afraid of Malcolm Grimm.)

(I’m _not_.)

When we get to his office, he sits behind his desk, then asks me to sit as well.

I don’t. I lean back against the door and fold my arms over my chest. I won’t be cowed by him today.

He smooths his shock-white hair back, accentuating the widows peak he passed along to me. “What is he doing here?”

“Having breakfast.”

“Why didn’t you tell us he was coming?”

“It was a last minute thing.”

He sighs heavily, slumping back in his chair in frustration. “ _Why_ is he here, Basilton?”

I cock a derisive eyebrow. “He wanted to see me.”

“Yes, well,” he says gruffly, tugging at one of his shirt cuffs. “Surely he could have waited another day.”

“If you want us to leave, we’ll leave.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re not making me feel very welcome.”

He’s getting flustered now. He certainly isn’t accustomed to pushback from me. I suppose I never cared enough to bother. It was enough for me to be distant, to match his aloofness with my own. But it isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about Simon.

“You’re always welcome,” he says angrily.

“But he isn’t?”

“He’s the bloody Mage’s heir, for Crowley’s sake.”

“No he isn’t. He’s just a man.” I square my shoulders. “And if he’s not welcome, then neither am I.”

“We had to leave our home because of him.”

“I’m alive because of him,” I spit.

Both his eyebrows shoot up.

I didn’t mean to say it. I don’t like sharing anything even remotely resembling feelings with my father. I’ve never told him how miserable I was those years at Watford, those years I was learning how to navigate life as a queer vampire in love with a golden boy I wasn’t even allowed to look at.

He doesn’t need to know what Simon meant to me back then, how just being near him gave me the strength to keep going. Those memories don’t belong to him.

So I switch gears. “He killed the Mage, remember? There’s nothing for him to inherit. He gave up his magic so the rest of us could keep ours.”

I can tell he wants to argue. I can also tell that he’s biting his tongue. He doesn’t want a fight any more than I do. I’m sure he thinks I’m being the difficult one right now.

“That’s all well and good,” he blusters. “It doesn’t excuse your behaviour back there.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your siblings are far too young to be exposed to such things.”

“Such things…” I echo. “You mean the fact that queer people exist?”

“Basilton, please.”

“No, please, father. Enlighten me. What behaviour are you referring to? Me holding my significant other’s hand? Answering my sisters honestly when they ask me perfectly innocent questions?” I push off from the door so I’m stood at my full height. “Or is simply not being straight enough to make me a deviant.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being a bigot, father.”

His face goes splotchy red. I wonder if mine would do that if I weren’t afflicted in the way I am.

“I am no such thing,” he says, and he has the audacity to be indignant. “I have no problem with you being…”

It’s fucking laughable. He can’t even bring himself to say it.

“I just don’t need to have it paraded around in front of me,” he finishes. “Nor do your siblings.”

I nod my head curtly, having officially reached my limit. If he can’t pull his head out of his ass when presented with his own son’s pain, he’s never going to, and I’ve spent as much emotional energy on this as I’m willing to. “Alright. Lovely chat, father.” I grab the door handle and turn it, fully intent on walking back to the dining room and collecting Simon so we can go home and be ourselves in a place where no one will judge us for it.

“Where are you going?”

I still, only because his voice has softened considerably. “I’m going home.”

“Why?”

I give him my most withering look.

“What, because of this?” He sounds genuinely confused.

“ _This_ is my life, father. My identity. My partner. It’s literally who I am.”

“There’s no need for theatrics, Basilton.”

I close my eyes and take a breath, trying to collect all the rage and violence in my heart and let it go. It won’t do any good to go off. I’ve known Simon Snow long enough to recognize that.

“I’m gay, father. Simon is a part of my life now, and that fact is not going to stop being true just because it makes you uncomfortable. I’m not going to hide my relationship with him any more than you would yours with Daphne.”

“It’s hardly the same thing.”

“Actually, it is.”

He opens his mouth, surely to argue, so I cut him off.

“I’m not going to hide anymore. If you want to be a part of my life, you’ll learn to accept it.” I open the door and walk from the room, leaving him to whatever his reaction may be.

**Simon**

“What did he say?”

Baz grimaces, stuffing a shirt into his suitcase with uncharacteristic carelessness. It’s not even folded.

“Nothing of import, I assure you.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him pack, feeling the tension rolling off his back in waves and not knowing how to fix it.

After he got up from the table, I was left to sit in the excruciating awkwardness of breakfast with the rest of Baz’s family. Daphne was clearly shaken, and I think Mordelia understood something uncomfortable was going on. The little boy was completely oblivious, happily eating pancakes with his sticky little fingers.

The twins, on the other hand, were as full of questions as ever.

“Mummy,” one of them said. I’d already forgotten their names again. “Is Baz in trouble with daddy?”

Daphne cleared her throat and very obviously avoided looking in my direction. “No, love. They’re just having a little chat.”

The other twin asked, “Are Baz and Simon going to get married?” The question was directed at Daphne, who looked distinctly like a frightened animal of some sort.

My hands were shaking, and suddenly the sugar sitting in my stomach like a brick was threatening to bring all I’d eaten that morning back up.

“I’m not sure, love,” Daphne managed to say. “They’re both very young yet, I’m sure they’re not thinking about such things.”

Then Mordelia came to my rescue. “Octavia, stop asking daft questions. Not everyone gets married. Auntie Fiona is old and she still isn’t married.”

I kind of stopped hearing what they were saying after that. I just sat there trying not to panic until Baz reappeared and told me it was time to go home.

I don’t know why I thought I could show up here in the middle of the night and not blow everything up. After a lifetime of being myself, I should have known I’d only end up doing damage.

“Hey Baz?”

He grunts, not looking at me, still jamming things into his suitcase chaotically.

“I’m sorry.”

His head snaps up. “What? For what?”

“For…” I gesture vaguely. “This. All of this.”

“Don’t be.” He abandons his packing and comes to sit beside me. “It actually felt good to finally tell him off.”

“You told him off?”

He nods.

“I’m sorry.”

“Simon,” he practically growls, pushing me down onto my back and rolling half on top of me in one swift motion. “Stop apologizing. I said I feel good.”

“You don’t seem like you feel good. You seem pissed off.”

“I can be both. My capacity for emotion is boundless, Snow.”

“Your dad’s a wanker.”

He laughs, dropping his face down onto the side of my neck. “Yes. But I already knew that. I’ve always known that, and I never had the bollocks to do anything about it before today. I’m pissed off that he’s a wanker, and happy that I finally felt strong enough to tell him I’m not having it anymore.”

“But—”

He slaps his hand down over my mouth. “Shut the fuck up, Snow.”

I blink up at him and stare into his slate grey eyes. They do look happy, and I don’t actually want to argue him out of feeling good. So I kiss his palm, and when he pulls his hand away I kiss his mouth for good measure.

“Your siblings are cool,” I tell him.

“They’re not. But they’re alright.”

“They’re lucky they’ve got a big brother who can teach them things. Important things that they’re not going to learn from their parents.”

“Snow…”

I shake my head. “They are. If any of them grow up to be queer, the example you’re setting for them now is going to make them feel so much safer.”

“Simon.” He sounds choked up. His hair is hanging down in my face, so I reach up and gather it into a ponytail in my hands.

“You’ve turned me into a fucking sap, Pitch.”

He smiles, and I pretend, for his pride’s sake, that I don’t notice the moisture in his eyes. “Ditto.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw in this chapter for marijuana use

**Baz**

Human nature is a terrifying thing.

There were times I felt almost completely removed from it, nights I’d spend trawling through underground tombs in search of blood that didn’t belong to me. Blood I’d take with violence and swallow down without much remorse, even. I was an animal, a monster, something dark and devoid of the humanity that made my classmates and family feel so unreachable.

I don’t hunt anymore. I don’t spend my nights underneath the world of the living. I don’t use my fangs. The life I’m living now makes me feel like a person, and I love it.

Usually. But the incontrovertible truth of living and breathing and feeling is that oftentimes, it hurts. Snow was right; pleasure is fleeting.

I roll over to face him, to look upon his peaceful sleeping face. I can see his freckles, even in the darkness. Sometimes my staring is so loud it shocks me that it doesn’t wake him. I’ve already got the planes of his face memorized, but still I never tire of the view.

He fell asleep almost the instant we climbed into bed, exhausted from a night spent traveling halfway across the country only to be greeted with vague distrust and thinly veiled disdain.

(There was an orgasm in between those hardships, but again, the pleasures of this mortal coil are too often swallowed up by pain and misery.)

I haven’t slept at all. Spelled stars twinkle on the ceiling above us, a comfort I thought I was past needing. I’ve been watching them for hours, trying unsuccessfully not to endlessly replay everything my father said to me this morning. The high of telling him off has faded, leaving behind only the sting of his disapproval. I can tell myself I don’t care, but that doesn’t make it true. He may not be a good dad, but he’s the only one I’ve got.

A deep and abiding sense of melancholy that I can’t shake has me reaching for my phone. I need someone to love me, someone who shares my name. If Malcolm Grimm won’t do it, there’s only one other.

— _Are you awake?_

I stare at the lit up screen, waiting. I’m not expecting a response, so when my phone buzzes telling me I’ve actually got one, I jump.

— _Well I am now, aren’t I? It’s the middle of the sodding night boyo, what do you want?_

_—I need you to be my aunt for a second. Properly. Pretend we don’t have the type of relationship where you just constantly take the piss. Please._

She could very well respond by telling me to fuck off. Fiona Pitch doesn’t like being told what to do.

But apparently my desperation is evident.

— _What’s going on?_

Now that I’ve got her, I’ve no idea what to say. I type and delete about ten pleas for reassurance before I give up. I can’t ask her for what I need, because I don’t even truly know what that would be.

— _Nothing. Sorry._

_—Look Bazza. It’s half three and I’m not even awake right now. Whatever’s got your knickers in a twist, you’ll be alright, yeah? You’re a Pitch_

My heart sinks. I’m a Pitch. I’m not meant to suffer with such a lowly affliction as sadness, no matter how warranted it may be.

— _Sure._

_—Ring me tomorrow. Daytime human hours. Not all of us are on vampire time_

For some reason, that makes me feel a bit better. My father would never make a vampire joke.

— _Piss off,_ I type, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of my mouth.

_—Attaboy. Now go to the fuck to sleep_

I close out of my messages and put my phone on the bedside table, and when I turn back to face Simon again, I’m met with his sleepy eyes blinking open. He reaches for me, hooking his arm around my lower back to pull me closer.

He’s so warm. It radiates from his skin and seeps into mine. He smells human and rich and there’s a hint of stubble on his jaw when I nuzzle my face up under it. He rests his chin on the top of my head and says, “Alright?”

My nose and mouth are pressed against his neck, feeling, smelling, hearing blood. I lick his skin. “I love you, Simon.”

“Love you too.” His voice is gravelly with sleep.

My fangs have dropped, and I’m not myself. I let them graze him, and I’ve never wanted to put them to use more. I’m not myself, so I tell him that. “I want to bite you.”

His hand moves up from the small of my back to push my hair off my face and tuck it behind my ear. “I know.”

I whisper, “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” knowing he won’t be able to hear me.

“Hmm?”

I press my lips to his pulse. “Simon.”

“What, love?”

He’s never called me that before. I don’t think I can handle it.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his eyes drifting up to take in the constellations above us. “Bad dream?”

I shake my head. “Haven't slept yet.”

He combs through my hair and it makes my scalp tingle. “Turn off your brain for a while. Sleep with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Everything’s okay, Baz.” He kisses the top of my head and keeps running his fingers through my hair. “You’re safe. You’re home.”

“I need you.”

“You have me. I’m here.”

I part my lips and the tips of my fangs press against his skin without breaking it.

He doesn’t flinch. His heart rate quickens, but I don’t smell fear. Only butter and iron and trust.

I pull away, pull his face down so it’s level with mine. “Tell me I’m not wrong.”

“I don’t understand.”

I close my eyes and press my forehead to his. I haven’t fallen apart this spectacularly since that night I set fire to the trees and he kissed me to save my life.

“Tell me I’m good,” I whisper.

He kisses me. Licks my teeth. Presses the tip of his tongue against the razor’s edge of a fang. I don’t have it in me to stop him. I want it. I need it.

I taste him. It’s only a drop, but never again will I be able to say I haven’t tasted human blood.

It doesn’t make me mindless. My mouth waters and I want more, but I was wrong. I don’t need it. I didn’t take it, he gave it to me, and I can leave it at that, because I’m not a monster.

“You’re good,” he says. “You’re good, Baz. Always.”

“I might’ve Turned you.”

“You didn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He kisses me, brushing my tongue with his. “It feels good.”

“What does?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Just… I feel good. Floaty.”

“It’s probably the venom. If you feel good while being feasted on you’re less likely to run away, aren’t you?”

“Shut the fuck up.” He rolls me onto my back and climbs on top, kissing me harder. My fang catches on his lip and there’s more blood this time. The taste of it is indescribable.

“Simon,” I say weakly, and it takes all the control I have. “Stop.”

“Is it good?” he asks. “Do you like it?”

My eyes flutter shut and I nod.

“Then shut up. Just… just shut up. Let me love you.”

I don’t have any fight left in me. We both have the taste of his blood in our mouths, and he still hasn’t run away. I kiss him again, licking the small nick on his lip. He sighs against my face.

I wrap my arms around his back and pull him down so he’s flush against me. I squeeze hard, probably harder than I should, burying my face in the crook of his neck. “I’m so tired.”

“Sleep with me,” he says again. He pulls free of my embrace and lies down behind me, slipping his arm around my waist.

My head is swimming. I don’t know if it’s the blood or the way he loves me, but an overwhelming sense of peace has chased away everything else. He’s rubbing my stomach, an ankle hooked around one of mine.

I won’t tell him, but I think he’s right. He isn’t Turned. I have nothing to point to as proof; nothing but a feeling in my gut. I don’t know _why_ I know it. I just do.

**Simon**

Baz’s alarm goes off at the usual time, waking me immediately as it always does. That’s what happens every time he has a class in the morning. Usually he shuts it off and grumbles and groans as he hauls himself out of bed, then dresses in clothes far too smart for an early morning lecture and kisses my forehead on the way out of our room.

Today the alarm is still going off after two minutes and he’s lying in bed completely still, the duvet pulled up high enough that only the top of his head is visible.

I would be annoyed if I wasn’t worried. He wasn’t himself last night.

Then I remember what I did. What I made him do.

I shuffle up to the back of him, guilt already festering. I knew he wasn’t ready for that and I did it anyway.

I wrap my arm around his waist and right away he takes my hand and pulls it up to his chest, tucking my arm under his. I’m momentarily comforted. He doesn’t hate me for what I did, at least. Or maybe he just isn’t awake enough yet to remember.

The alarm is still sounding. “Baz,” I murmur, lifting my head up and resting my cheek against his. “Wake up.”

He only clutches tighter to my arm and shakes his head.

“Your alarm,” I tell him.

He reaches out to pick up his phone, power it down, then toss it into a pile of clothes I left on the floor a few days ago.

“Don’t you have class?” I whisper.

“Sod it.”

My stomach clenches, because something is definitely wrong. He’s never skipped class. The only thing that ever kept him away was a locked coffin.

I tug on his shoulder to roll him over so he’s facing me, but he immediately buries his face in my neck.

“Baz.”

He makes a low, sleepy grumble in the back of his throat.

“Are you angry?” I blurt.

He pulls away and cracks one eye open. “What?”

“For last night.”

He’s frowning, and I can see now just how deeply exhausted he is. He can’t keep even that one eye open, and both of them are ringed a bruised purple colour.

“I’m tired,” he croaks. “Don’t wanna get up.”

“That’s fine.” I lean in and kiss his forehead. “You don’t have to. Go back to sleep.”

“Stay with me.” He hugs me to him, already on his way back to the land of dreams.

And I do stay for a while, but I can’t go back to sleep. The guilt hasn’t subsided, nor has my worry that when he wakes up and remembers with more clarity what happened last night, things will be different between us.

I’m tempted to excuse myself on the basis of being dead tired, or the helplessness I feel when he’s upset. I’m not good with words. In fact, I’m shit with them. I didn’t have any to offer last night, and I know he needed them. He needed something and that was all I could think of in the moment.

I’m the worst boyfriend in the world.

I go to the bathroom and lean in towards the mirror to study myself. There’s a tiny red line on my lower lip, but my tongue just looks like a tongue. I still look like myself. Still feel like myself, too. If he did Turn me, it hasn’t kicked in yet.

I don’t think he did, but honestly, I’m not actually that bothered either way. I reckon I’d prefer to stay as I am, but I don’t think vampirism is the death sentence he acts like it is. And it definitely doesn’t have any effect on your soul. As soon as I realized how good Baz is, it stopped being a big deal to me.

It’s a big deal to him, though. A big fat bloody deal, and I acted like I didn’t care.

I’m still staring at myself when Penny walks into the bathroom. I guess I forgot to close the door.

She looks at me like I’ve lost it. She may not be entirely wrong.

“Do I look different?” I ask her.

“Different than what?”

“Than usual.”

She squints, pushing her glasses up. “Is this a trick question?”

“No.”

“If you got a haircut, it was a very bad one. Still looks like you’ve got a mop on your head.”

She’s not wrong about that either. I need to sort that. Not that she’s one to talk. Ninety nine percent of the time she looks like she’s just stuck her finger in an electrical socket.

“No,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I mean— do I look ill? Or paler than I did last time you saw me. Or like… fitter?”

She blinks at me. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“Um… no. I don’t know. No.”

“Great. So can you get out and let me shower now? I’m meeting my study group soon.”

I sigh, giving myself one more glance in the mirror. I really don’t think I look different. “D’you want tea?”

She smiles. “Yes please.”

I’m still not great at cooking despite her and Baz’s attempts to teach me, but tea I can do. It’d be well pathetic if I couldn’t even fill a kettle and press the button down.

I drop two bags in my mug. It’s that kind of morning. I also drop bread into the toaster. I’ll probably eat three quarters of a loaf before I’m satisfied, but I’ll wait until Penny is gone. Two pieces is respectable; she won’t take the piss for that.

Not that it bothers me when she comments on how much I eat. She’s been doing it since we were eleven. That's the thing about Penelope, she judges me relentlessly and loves me anyway. Her judgement of me is that I’m a gluttonous slob with impulse control issues, but it doesn’t seem to make me any less appealing as a best friend to her. And she’s right, anyway.

That’s part of what makes my trust in her so unshakeable. She doesn’t do white lies. She doesn’t go in for baseless reassurance.

It’s also why I’m afraid to tell her what happened last night. Whatever she tells me will be the truth, or at least the truth as best she figures it, and I’ve never met anyone smarter than her. She’s almost always right. And I don’t think I’m strong enough to hear her tell me that I fucked up. Or that my relationship is never going to work out. Or whatever other terrifying thing she might say.

I’ve never told her that I like the idea of Baz biting me. I can’t imagine she would understand, especially not after the years and years I subjected her to me condemning Baz for his vampirism. Plus, we haven’t really met any vampires besides Baz who lend credence to my theory that being Turned doesn’t automatically make you a little bit evil.

I don’t know what it says about me that I’m not afraid of Baz Turning me, and I don’t particularly fancy her theories.

I know I don’t have a desire to be a vampire. I don’t. But I’ve come to accept that I find the fact of who Baz is hot, not in spite of anything, but because of it. He’s strong and graceful and kind of dangerous. He’s special.

I know Penny has come to love him in her own way, but I don’t think she has any space in her brain for the romanticism of vampirism. I suppose there’s a chance I’m wrong, and if I were braver, I’d ask. But I’m not. So I won’t. And I sure as fuck won’t tell her that I gave Baz my blood by choice. That’s one secret I’ll have to keep from her.

The toast startles me when it pops. I slather it with peanut butter and eat it over the sink while I wait for the kettle. Most of the time I miss my magic in a large scale kind of way, the sense of belonging to something, the feeling of importance I had as a result of my power. It’s not often that I miss the day to day mundanities of casting spells, but waiting for water to boil just feels ridiculous.

Penny comes into the kitchen with her hair so wet it’s dripping down her back. I point this out to her as I hand her her tea. “It’s easier to plait when it’s wet,” she tells me, grabbing a banana from the counter and plopping herself down at the kitchen table.

I sit across from her and watch her fingers fly. It only takes a couple minutes before she’s got two fancy looking braids on either side of her head and she’s peeling open her breakfast.

“What?” she says through a mushy yellow mouthful.

“Huh?” I say back.

“You’re staring at me.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay you’re not.” She takes a sip of tea and grimaces at the heat of it. “You are, though.”

I force myself to look down at the contents of my mug. “Sorry.”

“Since when do you not tell me when something is bothering you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay, you’re fine.”

She’s too bloody perceptive. I need to change the subject. “How are things going with Shepard?”

She’s immediately embarrassed. “What things?”

“Did you tell him you fancy him?”

“Not exactly.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don’t need to. He knows.”

“How come?”

She bites her lip. “I may have invited him for Christmas.”

“Wow, Pen.” I try to shove down the weirdness I feel about picturing him at the Bunces’ for the holidays. Will he fit in there better than I did? Will Penny’s mum like him better than she ever liked me? “Did he say yes?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s brilliant. Meeting the family already.”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

I frown. “What d’you mean?”

She shrugs again. It’s very unlike her. She always gives me shit when I do it. “I thought maybe I’d like to do it here this year. At the flat.”

“Really?”

“There’s no space at my parents’ place. And anyway, i don’t want…” she trails off, and I think I know why.

“You don’t want me to be alone?”

“Is that so terrible?”

“No.” I smile at her. “It’s not. But Baz said I could come to his.”

“Oh, well then.”

I allow myself to picture it. Christmas in my own home. A tree, gifts, food, carols, cheesy specials on the telly, all of it. With Penny and Shepard. Maybe I could even convince them to watch Doctor Who with me. It started as an Agatha tradition, but it’s one I genuinely miss.

Then I allow myself to go even further, to picture it with Baz there as well. Forcing him to drink eggnog and listen to bad Christmas music and wear matching ugly jumpers with me. Waking up next to him on Christmas day. Starting our own traditions.

“It would be nice,” I say quietly.

Her eyebrows go up a little. “Yeah?”

I nod. “I think I would love that.”

She smiles. “I would too.”

“Baz’s dad was— He’s—” I comb a hand through my curls. “I mean, I think he might like it too, this year. To be away from family.”

“He won’t be away from family,” Penny says. She picks up her tea and takes a long drink, the temperature apparently more to her liking now. “He’ll be with us, after all.”

I think that may be the most sentimental thing she’s ever said. It makes me want to get up and squeeze her, but I don’t want to scare her off from a future repeat performance, so I just smile and say, “You’re right.”

-

Baz is still asleep a few hours later when there’s a sharp knock on the front door. Penny’s long gone and I’ve been sat on the sofa watching telly and drifting in and out of daydreams about Christmas, and the sound makes my heart jump. No one ever knocks on our door.

I’m tempted to ignore it, but there’s another knock about twenty seconds later. It’s so insistent and aggressive that I find myself getting up to go answer it even though I really don’t want to.

A third knock starts up as I pull the door open.

It’s Fiona Pitch. She pushes past me before I even have time to process the strangeness of her standing there.

“Where’s Baz?” she demands, eyeing my small unassuming flat like I've got him chained up in the corner or something. The streak of white in her hair is striking. Her Docs are heavy, leaving wet footprints on the floor as she paces the lounge.

I try not to sound as terrified as I am. “He’s sleeping.”

She looks at me suspiciously. “It’s midday.”

“He had a bad night.”

“I know.” She takes off her black leather jacket and tosses it onto the sofa. “That’s why I’m here.”

“You know?”

“He texted me in the middle of the night and then wouldn’t answer any of my calls this morning.” Her arms cross tightly over her chest as she glares at me. “What’d you do to him, Snow.”

Fear flares up into indignation, a welcome emotion that feels much more familiar to me when faced with Baz’s aunt. “He’s my boyfriend.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I already know all about my nephew’s exceedingly bad taste in men, thank you. Where is he?”

“He’s in our room,” I say. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Last I checked, his room is in my flat.”

“You should check more often,” I spit. “He lives with me now.”

“And look how well that’s working out for him,” she scoffs.

If I still had magic, I’d be smoking by now. I don’t often miss that, but it’d come in handy in situations like this. I doubt Fiona Pitch is intimidated by my red face and clenched fists.

“Why don’t you ask your brother in law what’s wrong with Baz?” I say, as cuttingly as I possibly can.

Something in her posture deflates just a little. “Malcolm?”

“Do you have another brother in law?” It’s possible Baz’s penchant for snark is rubbing off on me.

“Piss off. What does Malcolm have to do with anything?”

“Baz went home this weekend and his dad was a twat.”

“He’s always a twat. Baz is a big boy, he can handle it.”

“I was there.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Baz’s sister saw us holding hands at breakfast and started asking questions. Malcolm wasn’t pleased.”

She laughs. She fucking laughs. I really, really don’t like calling women bitches, but…

“I’m impressed, Chosen One.” She walks over to the sofa and collapses into it, kicking her wet boots up onto the coffee table. Baz would hate it. “Wouldn’t have thought you had the bollocks to touch Malcolm’s son right in front of him.”

“I’m not scared of him.”

She laughs again. “Yes, we know, you’re a very brave—”

“You know, I don’t think seeing another family member who pisses all over the things that matter to Baz is what he needs right now. You should leave.”

I see anger flash across her face, and for a moment I’m genuinely afraid. She’s a powerful magician and she hates me. I wouldn’t put it past her to throw a nasty spell at me before she’s thought it through.

But then her expression shifts. The anger fades into something I can’t parse.

“Things he cares about,” she echoes. “I presume you’re referring to yourself?”

I shrug.

“Malcolm’s a mediocre magician with a stick so far up his arse he’s choking on it. He was never good enough for Natasha. Baz should consider his disapproval a compliment.”

“Yeah, well.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my joggers. “He’s still his dad, isn’t he? Baz is good at acting tough, but he’s still just a bloke. He still has feelings.”

She leans into the back of the couch cushions and sighs. “Don’t tell him you’ve figured that out. He’ll be tilted.”

“Maybe you lot should stop acting like he doesn’t. Maybe pretending nothing bothers him is part of the problem. Have you ever taken two seconds to consider that?”

She holds up her hands. “Alright, alright, call off the dogs, mate. I’m here, aren’t I? My calls were going straight to voicemail and I got worried. Don’t I get points for that?”

“You’d get more if you didn’t barge into my house and accuse me of shit. I’m taking care of him better than anyone else ever did.”

I don’t know where these words are coming from. Usually when I’m angry I can’t string enough words together for a single sentence, let alone a cohesive indictment of whatever it is that’s pissing me off.

“Crowley, Snow, you’re like a fucking pit viper.” She drops her head back and pushes her fringe up off her forehead. Then she looks at me again. “Is he alright? Just tell me that.”

My defiance starts to ebb. I’m no fan of Fiona’s, but she’s not Malcolm. And if I omit the part about her being rude to me, Baz will probably be happy to know she stopped in to check up on him.

I walk over to the sofa and sit as far from her as possible. “I don’t know. I think so.” I pause. “I hope so.”

“It’s not like him to reach out like he did,” she says quietly.

“He told Malcolm he can’t be part of Baz’s life if he can’t accept that he’s gay and I’m his boyfriend.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.” I gather the hair that’s hanging in my face and scrape it up into a ponytail I have no elastic to keep in place. I’m about ready to take a pair of kitchen scissors to my head. “He seemed chuffed about it at first, finally telling his dad to fuck off, but then I guess when it really sunk in…”

Fiona sighs again. “Tell anyone I said this and I’ll rip your spleen out, but Malcolm’s alright. He’s got some backwards ideas and he’s boring as shit, but he loves his kids.”

I shrug. All the fight has gone out of me. “If he really loves Baz, it shouldn’t be that hard to be supportive. Even you manage it once in a while.”

She flips me off, but there’s no more venom behind it. I feel the tension bleeding out of my shoulders. “He’s never slept in like this, though. He’s skipping class right now, which he also never does.”

“It’ll do him good.” She throws one of her ankles over the other knee and starts unlacing her boot as if she means to stay. “His stick is shoved almost as far up as Malcolm’s.”

“Only around everyone else,” I say, letting my curls fall back into my eyes. “He’s not like that with me.”

She drops the boot on the ground with a heavy thud and moves on to the other. “I don’t need to hear about my nephew’s sex life, thank you very much.”

“I’m not talking about sex.”

I am a little, but she doesn’t need to know that. Actually, she doesn’t need to know anything. She doesn’t need to be here at all. Why is she still here?

Once she’s freed herself of her clunky footwear, she wiggles her socked toes and crosses one leg over the other, then turns to stare at me. Her eyes are almost as piercing as Baz’s, but hers are darker, almost black.

“You’re proper in love with him, aren’t you? And he is with you.”

I nod.

She’s got a hint of a smile on as she shakes her head in disbelief. “Only Basil would manage to fall for the enemy.”

“I’m not,” I say weakly. “I haven’t been that for a long time.”

“I suppose not.”

We sit there in silence a while, then she says, “You got any booze in here, or what? I need a drink.”

I shake my head. “Just tea.”

“Make us a brew then.”

I think about telling her to fuck off and make her own tea, or better yet leave my flat and go get drunk on her own time, but I could use a cuppa. And maybe… maybe some company.

I haul myself off the sofa and head to the kitchen.

When I return a few minutes later, I’ve got a mug in either hand and she’s got a fag in her mouth. Only it’s not a fag. There’s already a plume of skunky smoke in my lounge.

I hand her a big red mug. “If Penny was here, she’d kill you.”

“Good thing she’s not then, eh?”

I sit, not taking as much care as before to keep a large distance. She takes a drag, then holds the joint out to me as she exhales.

“She’s going to smell it,” I say, but I take it from her.

“I’ll spell the smell away, you big baby.” She takes a sip of her tea. “You look like you could use it.”

I can’t really argue with that assertion. There’s a knot in my stomach that hasn't gone away since I woke up and remembered Baz licking blood from the cut on my lip. I’ve never gotten high myself, but loads of boys in the homes did. No one ever liked me enough to offer me any, not that I would have partaken back then.

I will now, though. I put it between my lips and inhale. The smoke fills my lungs and it feels familiar, like going off, but more mellow. The burn in the back of my throat feels like magic. My magic.

I exhale without so much as a cough and hand the joint back to her.

“Better?” she asks.

I shrug. But it does feel kind of nice. Strangely nostalgic. “Penny would say it kills brain cells.”

“That’s the goal, boyo.” She takes a huge toke and blows the smoke out in a ring.

“Don’t know if I’ve really got enough to spare.”

She laughs, coughing a bit and slapping me on the back. “The Chosen One made a joke!”

“Don’t call me that,” I grumble, plucking the joint from her. I take a bigger hit this time, holding it in until my head starts to swim.

“You _were_ chosen.”

I exhale and sink back into the cushions. “I was just an orphan boy. Good at following orders.”

“And a bad judge of character,” she points out.

“He took me out of hell and gave me a future. Or… I thought he did, anyway. At the time.” I hand her back the joint and return to my tea. I feel like I could float away if I thought about it hard enough. “I made things right in the end. And I got to keep Baz. So it’s not all bad.”

“If I’d known you were going to start blathering on about your feelings I wouldn’t have shared my grass.”

I snort. “Grass?”

She looks annoyed. “What.”

I’m giggling now. “Grass. You sound like a hippie.”

She tries to flick some ash at me, but it lands on the cushion between us. I laugh harder. “Baz is gonna kill you.”

“I’d like to see him try.”

“He’s really strong, you know, being a vampire and all.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “I take out vampires for a living.”

“Oh yeah.” My laughter stops. “That’s so weird. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“I think it makes sense. I loathe them. They took my sister from me.”

“But Baz is one.”

“Baz is Baz. He’s a Pitch.”

“Yeah.” I take the joint from her. It’s almost gone now, so I take one more puff and hand it back to her for good. I’ve had enough anyway. I feel looser, like none of my problems are as bad as I make them out to be.

“That must be a dangerous job,” I say

“I suppose it is, in theory. But I’ve got magic on my side. And blind unadulterated hatred.”

“Are they all evil?”

She shrugs, draining her tea and dropping the roach into the dregs. It fizzles for a moment, then goes out. “I only go after the ones who are.”

“What about Nicodemus?”

Her eyes instantly go sharp, her face made entirely of hard lines. “What about him.”

“Is he evil?”

“I’d kill him if I got the chance.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Her voice is ice. “He’s a traitor.”

“Do you still love him?”

Apparently being high means I say what I’m thinking without any kind of filtering.

“You’re on thin ice, kid.”

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just… I’ve been thinking about this stuff lately.”

She waits for me to elaborate.

I shrug. “Baz is really the only example I’ve seen of a vampire who fights the darker impulses. But if he can do it, why can’t the others? Do you think…” An awful realization hits me. “Do you think it’s because he’s never tasted human blood?”

“I’ve never given it much thought.”

I hadn’t either. Until now. Until I gave him some of my blood and he decided to sleep all day. Until I forced a change on us that we—

“Why do you look like you’re about to piss your pants?”

I’m about to do something stupid; maybe cry, maybe tell her what happened last night— when suddenly Baz walks into the room in just his pants.

“Fiona?” It sounds like someone took a cheese grater to his larynx.

“Christ, Basil. Put some clothes on.”

“What are you doing here?” He looks at me. “What’s going on?”

I’m chewing on my lip and staring. He looks really freaking fit with his bed head and his long body and his stupid perfect face. I want to leap off the sofa into his arms and ask him if he forgives me. I want him to tell me he does so I can drag him back to bed and we can practice touching each other like boyfriends.

I also kind of want him to go away so I can ask his aunt more questions about vampires.

“I came to check on you,” she tells him. “I told you to ring me and you didn’t.”

“I was sleeping.”

He looks so adorably confused. There’s a line on his cheek where it must have been pressed against a crease in the pillow.

“Are you alright?” I ask. “I’ve never seen you sleep so long.”

He hugs his arms around his chest. “I think…” His eyes dart over to Fiona and then back to me. “I think something happened to me.”

**Baz**

There’s too much weird shit going on for me to handle. I’m stood mostly naked in the lounge with a head full of fog. The smell of marijuana is so thick I’m tempted to gag. Simon’s eyes are red and glassy, which means Fiona has somehow talked him into smoking with her, even though it’s a well established fact that they hate each other. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon and I missed two classes. I’ve never slept that hard in my life.

“What happened?” Snow says, instantly panicked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Seriously, Baz, go put some clothes on,” Fiona says. “There’s not enough fabric between my eyes and your—”

“Oi!” Simon springs up and over to me, taking my hand and pulling on it. “Come on. Let’s get you dressed.” He smiles a soft smile that makes me melt, then turns back to Fiona. “Make some tea,” he instructs. “A whole pot.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

What the fuck is happening? In what universe does Fiona Pitch do something just because someone told her to? Especially when that someone is Simon Snow.

He pulls me to our room. As soon as the door closes behind us, he grabs me, wrapping me up in his arms and squeezing. My nose is flooded with the scent of him, somehow even more potent than ever before, probably because now I know the taste of what flows through his veins. My mouth waters, but I fight the urge to let my fangs drop.

“You’re so warm,” I murmur, reaching up gingerly to touch his back as he tries his best to crush me.

“Baz what the fuck?” He pushes me back but keeps a firm grip on my biceps. “What’s happening?”

“What? Nothing.”

“You said something happened.”

I pull his vice like fists off my arms and pull him against me again, draping my arms around his shoulders. “I slept, Simon. I slept properly, for the first time in… Crowley. Maybe ever.”

“Do you hate me?”

“ _What_?”

“Will you ever trust me again? Did I ruin everything?”

“Simon.” I lean in and kiss him. He tastes like tea and smoke and I love the way his mouth moves with and against mine, always warm and wet and perfect. I love that against every possible odd, we still work.

Then he pulls away. “I made you bite me.”

“I would hardly call that a bite.”

“You tasted blood.”

“I did.”

“I knew you didn’t want to and I did it anyway.”

“You did it for me, didn’t you?” I trace my finger across his freckled cheek.

“For you. But also for me. Because I’m selfish.”

“That’s the last thing you are, Snow. Bottom of the list.”

“Do you feel… different? Better? Worse? More like a vampire? Less?”

“I feel…” I lean my forehead into his and close my eyes so I can really focus on myself and how it feels in this moment to occupy space in my body.

“Good,” I say finally.

“Because of the blood?”

“Because of you, Simon.”

“Me?”

“Yes, idiot. You.” I give him a gentle shake. “I was proper depressed last night. Full on spiraling. And you turned it all around.”

There’s a rap on the door. “If you’re going to be fucking around in there, tell me so I can leave before I hear anything that’s going to make my ears bleed.”

“We’re talking,” Simon says defiantly.

“Feel free to leave,” I add. “I wouldn’t mind a little fucking around.” I look right at Simon when I say it. His mouth drops open on a smile.

Then he says, “Don’t leave. We can fuck around later. Just make the tea. And maybe some toast, I’m bloody starved.”

She grumbles something under her breath and the floorboards creak as she walks down the hall.

I stare at him. “What the hell is happening?”

I shrug. “She’s not as horrible as she wants people to think.”

“Is this because she gave you drugs?”

He barks a laugh. “You can tell?”

“Simon.” I give him a look.

“I mean, it feels kind of nice. But that’s not what I mean. She’s here to see you. She was genuinely worried.”

The sincerity of it all makes my skin itch. “That’s kind of her, I suppose. She might’ve rung first.”

“You turned your phone off.”

“I did?”

He nods. “You were really out of it this morning.”

I scrub my hand down over my face. “Feel like I still am.”

A moment later, he chucks a pair of jeans at me. “Get dressed. Go hang out with a member of your family who doesn’t suck.”

I get dressed and we go out to the lounge to have tea with my aunt. She doesn’t act much different than usual, but it’s nice. It’s nice that she came. Mostly I try not to feel mortified at the way I practically begged her for attention last night. I scold her for giving my boyfriend drugs, and she and Simon both lose themselves to a fit of giggles. I can’t tell if I’m annoyed or endeared.

Simon seems happy, so I can’t be too annoyed. He and Fiona are bantering like a couple of old mates, trading light hearted insults when they’re not busy doting on me.

Well, Simon dotes. He rubs my feet and heats me up a mug of blood. Fi mostly just takes the piss, but it’s much gentler than usual. She tells us both we need haircuts and that our flat is a travesty. It isn’t; it’s cozy, something that doesn’t really exist in the life of a Pitch. But it does for me. It does now. And I love it.

I tell her so and she rolls her eyes. I’ve too much class to point out that her flat is just as small as ours. I don’t think she knows how to be comforting, but she’s trying. She’s here. She’s making nice with my boyfriend, and I didn’t even have to ask. I shudder to think how much detail of my trip home Simon had to share to wring this level of civility from her.

Eventually he falls asleep, his whole body slumped to the side, head resting on the arm of the sofa. I want to curl up next to him, and I’m about to tell Fiona she’s fulfilled her aunt-ly duties and she’s free to go when she stands up and motions me over with her head.

“Let’s go out and get the kid some food. I never did make him that toast.”

-

We’ve walked about two blocks before I’ve chewed on my words so much that I have to either swallow them or spit them out.

As always, she beats me to the punch. “So. Darling Daddy’s been a bit of a cunt, then?”

I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. Sometimes her vulgarity is comforting. And her dislike of my father. “Indeed.”

“You told him off?”

I sigh. “Did Snow tell you everything?”

“He couldn’t tell me exactly what you said to Malcolm. He didn’t know that bit.”

“I don’t want him to,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I told him the gist. He doesn’t need details. He has enough shit to deal with without worrying about his boyfriend’s family being unsupportive.”

She elbows me in the arm. “Oi. Not the whole family.”

I look at her. “How much did you smoke?”

“One joint, asshole. And your boy smoked half.”

“Thanks for that, by the way,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

“He needed it. He was wound up tight enough to snap. Worried about you.” She pulls a fag from her pocket and lights up, forced to use a lighter and not magic because we’re out in public. “He’s a good lad.”

I keep looking straight ahead, not wanting to see her face as I let those words wash over me. “Yeah,” I say gruffly. “He is.”

“Whatever Malcolm said, he’s full of shit.”

“I know.” I breathe in the smell of tobacco, bathing in the nostalgia of it. To me, the smell of smoke has always been comforting. All my favourite people smelled of it. Fiona, Simon. My mother. It was more delicate with her, not the cloying scent of cigarettes or godlike displays of magic, but fire. I don’t twist flames between my fingers as much as she did. I’m flammable, after all. But I’m a Pitch. Fire and smoke are in my blood.

“Thanks, Fi.”

She pretends not to hear me and I’m glad. But I know she heard, and I’m glad for that too.

“What does the Chosen One like to eat?” she asks.

“Everything.” I reach out and take the fag from her, allowing myself one deep drag, savouring the taste before blowing the smoke out in her direction. “And don’t call him that.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Simon**

The shelter is called Horizon House. It’s a little brick building a few blocks away from Poppy’s. It looks unassuming on the outside, like it could be someone’s house. The door is painted with a rainbow, though time and the elements have left it looking dirty and beat up.

The inside is similar. It’s clean enough, clearly maintained to the best of the staff’s ability, but nothing about it screams state of the art. I haven’t seen much of it beside the main entrance, but it’s obvious that it’s seen a lot over the years. The man who runs the place is called Rob, and he’s always over the moon to get the bags of pastries I deliver at the end of my shifts. He’s a big man with a bald head and a full beard, and something about him feels comforting.

I can’t seem to decide how this place makes me feel. There’s a strange coziness to it, and it always envelops me in warmth when I step in from the cold London evenings. Rob’s gratitude for the food makes me feel like I’m doing more than just saving some muffins from being tossed in the bin, which is nice, and also somehow not. It makes me wonder how hard he has to work to get enough food to feed the kids that come in and out every day. It makes me think of how many kids are in need of a service like his. It makes me think of how easily I could have ended up needing something similar.

It makes me think a lot, and most of those thoughts leave me tangled up on the inside as I walk back to the flat I share with my two best friends.

I don’t like thinking. I never have. Thinking just leads to pain, and nowadays I can’t seem to make myself stop once I’ve started. It’s a skill I had mastered before I met Baz. Now I don’t even remember how I managed it. There are so many thoughts to be had.

I shut the door behind me and kick my trainers off on the mat. I leave my coat and hat in a pile on the floor knowing either Baz or Penny will chide me for it later. I can’t be arsed to hang them up. I’m cold and tired and hungry and sad. My feet hurt.

Baz isn’t in the lounge. He isn’t in our room. I know he’s at home because he doesn’t have any classes this late and his shoes are on the mat. Penny’s bedroom door is closed and I can hear her talking to Shepard. Well, I can hear her talking, anyway, and it’s only ever Shepard she’s talking to when she’s on the phone. Agatha doesn’t answer her calls anymore.

Baz has left food for me in the fridge, two sausage rolls and a cheese and onion bake from Greggs. I eat them straight out of the fridge without even bothering to heat them up. I’ll be hungry again in an hour, but that’s a problem for later. Right now I’m feeling the overwhelming urge to be touched.

The only other place in the flat Baz could be is the bathroom, so I stand outside the door and knock.

“I’m in the bath, Bunce, and no you can’t come in, even if you promise to keep your eyes closed.”

“It’s me,” I say. I turn the knob, but it’s locked.

“Do you need the toilet?” he asks, his voice much softer than before.

“No. I need you.”

A moment later I hear him spell the door open. I step into the room and lock the door again behind me. The air is steamy and the mirror is completely fogged. His clothes are folded neatly on the counter beside the sink, and he’s looking at me expectantly.

“What’s wrong?”

I don’t answer. I don’t particularly want to talk.

I’d rather look at him. The bath is full of bubbles so I can’t see any part of him that’s submerged, but I can see the hint of pink in his cheeks and the sharpness of his collarbones and the dark hair he’s pulled up into a bun.

I take off my shirt, waiting for him to tell me not to. He doesn’t, so I unbuckle my belt and unzip my jeans and pull them off. He looks worried. His eyes don’t move from my face, even when I drop my pants, which is honestly a little disappointing. He’s only seen me starkers a couple times now. It shouldn’t be old hat yet.

I pull my socks off last, chucking them on top of the crumpled heap of the rest of my clothes. He doesn’t scold me for it, just says in a quiet voice, “I don’t think you’ll fit.”

“Budge up,” I say, ignoring his warning. I’ll fit. I’ll bloody make myself fit.

He folds his legs up to his chest and moves forward so I can climb in and sit behind him. He’s right, I don’t fit, but I don’t care. I’m a selfish, selfish person and I don’t care that I’m ruining my boyfriend’s relaxation time.

The water is fucking boiling. I reckon he doesn’t even use any cold, just turns the hot up all the way and then climbs in to cook himself. I hiss at first, but after a moment or two I start to adjust and it actually feels nice on my sore muscles. I bracket him with my legs as best I can given how stupidly small the tub is for two fully grown men, one of whom is six feet tall. His skin feels as warm as mine. I like it, but then again, I also like when his skin is cool. I just like his skin, I guess.

I lean my cheek against his back. It’s not as warm there since it isn’t soaking in scalding hot water. It feels nice, as I’ve already started to sweat. It’s like a sauna in here.

He rubs a hand down my shin and says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” I say back, looping my arms loosely around his waist.

“How was work?”

“Fine. How was class?”

“Fine.”

“Thanks for the food.”

“Of course.” He drops his head back onto my shoulder. “It wasn’t enough, was it?”

I kiss his temple. “I could’ve eaten more.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” I hook my chin over his shoulder. “Not anymore.”

He’s quiet for a while. We both are. He stays leaned back against me and I hold him and it’s exactly what I needed.

Then he asks, “Did you go to the shelter?”

I nod. He knows me so fucking well. I’m so fucking lucky to have to this. To have him.

What makes me so special that I got to escape from the circumstances of my upbringing when so many others don’t?

I guess I know the answer: magic. Back then I had magic, enough to make the rest of the world go dark. Enough to make me desirable even when nothing else about me was.

“Simon.”

“Hmm?” I try to blink away this particular thought spiral.

“Stop thinking for a little while, yeah?”

I exhale slowly and deliberately. “Yeah. Okay.”

He takes my hand and presses it to his stomach. He’s started doing that, I’ve noticed. I think he likes when I touch him there, even though it’s never meant as a sexual thing. Actually, usually I do it without even thinking. His skin is like velvet and I like feeling the muscle there.

He sighs. “That feels good.”

“You feel good,” I counter.

“Someday when we buy a house, we’re going to have a custom tub built that fits us both at the same time.”

I feel like someone reached down my throat and squeezed a fist around my heart. He said that like it was nothing, like it’s only inevitable that we’ll still be together so far into the future that we’re in a position to buy a house together and build a custom bathtub.

I tighten my grip on him, squeezing, burying my face in his skin. He smells too good to be real. I kiss the little baby hairs at the nape of his neck, the ones that are too short to fit into his ponytail. I’m in danger of shedding tears, and the only way I can stop that from happening is bear hugging with all my might.

He’s strong. He can take it.

**Baz**

We stay in the water until it’s gone cold and our fingertips are shriveled up like raisins. Then we wrap ourselves in towels and head to our room. Once the door is closed, Simon drops his towel and climbs straight into bed. I’d assumed he’d be keen for a second dinner, but he lifts the duvet up and says, “Come on.”

He doesn’t tell me to get dressed, so I don’t. The air feels frigid on my damp skin, and snuggling up against him under the covers is heavenly. It makes me shudder when he wraps an arm around me.

I barely have time to wonder if he just wants to go to sleep before his mouth finds mine. He tastes a bit like onion, but it does nothing to dampen my enthusiasm. It’s dark and warm in our little cave of blankets and the world feels small and private, like it belongs just to us. He wraps a hand around the back of my knee and hitches my leg up onto his hip.

He still gives me butterflies. I feel more like a teenager now than I did when I actually was one. Sometimes my brain just gets stuck on _Simon Snow_. This is Simon Snow touching me, pulling me closer, brushing his tongue against mine. It’s Simon Snow whose fingers are wrapping around me where I’ve quickly grown hard, Simon Snow who’s such a quick study that he already knows exactly how to move to take me apart.

He won’t let me return the favour. He just wants me to kiss him, he says. He just wants to hold me. I’m just a puddle of a man now, but I can kiss him. I can let him hold me. I ask him if he wants to talk, but he shakes his head. I know sometimes words are harder for him than anything else.

Then I kiss his neck, and he finds a few words after all. He grips the back of _my_ neck and says, “You can bite me if you want.”

It’s a lot harder to resist now that I know what he tastes like. Now that I know he won’t imminently be Turned. It’s been weeks since he pierced his tongue and lip on my fangs, and nothing has changed. He’s as alive as he ever was.

“Not tonight, love.” I reach up to pull his hand from where he’s got me. My fingers sink between his. “I don’t want to do it when you’re this vulnerable.”

“But that’s when I want it most.” His voice is so small.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a psychologist.”

I squeeze his hand. “Can you… Would you let me talk to Fiona first?”

“Fiona? Why?”

“I need to know for sure that a proper bite won’t Turn you.”

“You reckon she’ll know?”

“She hunts vampires for a living,” I say. “If anyone is going to know, it’d be her.”

He’s quiet for a very long time. “It’s really important to you to be sure, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Okay.”

I let go of his hand so I can gather him into my arms. “Thank you, Simon.”

He returns the hug with a hand on my back, slowly rubbing up and down. We lie like that for a while, and then he says, “Baz?”

“What is it?”

“Can we order food?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Yes, Snow. Of course we can.”

**Simon**

I wake in the morning to something cool brushing lightly against my back. I don’t even have to open my eyes to know that it’s Baz’s lips.

“Morning,” I say.

His response is a hum that I can feel where his mouth is pressed to my shoulder blade. He puts a hand on my hip and moves to kiss another spot, and then another, and still another.

“What are you doing?”

“Kissing your freckles,” he says. “It’s a travesty I haven’t tried before today.”

I smile, rolling onto my back and looking up into his eyes, his hair falling all around my face. I reach up and gather it into a ponytail in my hands. “I’ve got a lot of freckles, mate.”

“I’ve got a lot of patience.” He leans down and kisses all across my brow bone. “And nothing but time.”

“You don’t have class?”

“It’s Saturday, you spork.” He kisses down my nose. “Do you have work?”

“I don’t know,” I say, letting his hair fall in a curtain on one side of his neck so I can put my hands behind my head. “Don’t fucking care, either.”

“Good.”

We’re both naked. That’s how we sleep now, even when we don’t fool around.

He kisses every inch of my face. The shell of my ear. He pulls my bottom lip down and kisses the inside of it.

“I do not have a fucking freckle on the inside of my mouth.”

“You do,” he says, and kisses it again.

He kisses along my jaw. Down the side of my neck and over my adam’s apple. Across my collar bone. Down my arm. On the inside of my wrist. In the center of my palm.

“No,” I say, completely disbelieving. He holds my hand up for me to see. I frown. “How do you know my body better than I do?”

“I’ve been obsessing over it for a decade now, Snow.”

“I should probably find that creepy.”

“But you don’t.”

“I don’t,” I murmur in agreement. In reality it’s thrilling.

There isn’t really any significant amount of skin on my body that isn’t splattered with flecks of brown. I thought he was exaggerating when he said he wanted to kiss every single one, but I’m realizing now that he wasn’t. By the time he’s done both arms, elbows and all, I’m starting to get drowsy again. His lips are soft and the light coming in through the window is the dull kind typical of winter in London. Everything feels muted and gentle. My hand drifts downwards to play with his hair as he kisses my chest.

“How many d’you reckon there are?” I ask sleepily.

“Millions.”

“Your mouth is going to fall off.”

“A risk I’m willing to take.” He kisses my nipple.

“I definitely don’t have one there.”

“You have no proof,” he says, and does it again.

It feels a little bit good. I kind of want him to do it again, but he’s already moved on.

He spends ages on my chest and stomach, but I’m not drowsy anymore. The further down my body he gets, the more charged it feels. I can’t tell if he’s trying to wind me up or not, but I hope he is. I’ll feel guilty for being turned on if he’s only trying to be romantic.

He’s on all fours straddling me, which is hard enough to handle, but then he nudges my legs open and lies down between them. It’s too much, and somehow also not enough. He’s kissing around my belly button and the top of his chest is pressing against my cock and I’m still not sure if I’m allowed to be excited.

He slides his arm under the back of my thigh and hitches my leg up over his shoulder, shuffling down a bit and turning his head to kiss my hip. His face is _right there_ and he’s acting like he doesn’t see that I’m hard. Or like he doesn’t care.

Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe this really isn’t supposed to be sexy.

My hand is still buried in his hair. Without thinking, and through a fog of frustration, I tug a little harder than I should.

He looks up at me. Merlin, he’s gorgeous. It’s fucking ridiculous.

“Are you kissing _all_ my freckles?” I croak.

“Yes.”

“Well then.” I tug his hair again, much more gently this time. “You missed a spot.”

His eyes are locked on mine. “Can I?”

I nod. My heart is jackhammering into my ribs.

He leaves my one leg draped over his shoulder. I still haven’t watched any porn, but I can’t imagine anything looking better than this. I can’t imagine anything hotter than the way he looks at my body, like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen, like he’s lucky to be seeing it. If he is, then I’m ten times luckier to be the one he’s seeing. I’m a hundred times luckier to be the one he cherishes this much.

“Simon,” he says, rubbing a cool hand up my side. “Breathe.”

I exhale a massive breath, and a little of the pressure in my lungs releases. It’s entirely humiliating - or it would be if I had the capacity to give a shit. Which right now I definitely do not.

He leans down and I can tell I’m immediately holding my breath again but breathing feels irrelevant when Baz’s mouth is this close to the most private parts of me.

When his lips make contact with my skin, it’s not where I’m expecting. Not at first. First he kisses around it, low on my stomach, on the crease of my pelvis, the side of my thigh. One of his thumbs rubs soothingly over my hip and I’m not convinced he’s bothering to kiss freckles anymore. He seems more intent on working me up than anything. Or maybe… maybe he’s drawing it out for his sake?

That seems like an arrogant thought to have. It’s not like I’ve got anything special down there. I kind of wish I’d trimmed the hair or something. I feel so incredibly exposed. He always keeps his hair trimmed, I should’ve done it too. He’s not acting bothered but maybe he’s just too nice to say anything.

But then, Baz isn’t really nice, is he? He doesn’t go out of his way to be nice. He treats me well, but he doesn’t lie. He’s not afraid to tell me when I’m dressed like a slob or acting like an idiot.

Then he does it. He kisses my cock, low down near the base. I know I have a freckle there, so maybe he hasn’t forgotten his original mission after all. There isn’t much actual sensation, but I feel electrified nonetheless. The sheer intimacy of it is overwhelming.

In a good way. It’s good. It’s not scary.

I mean, it is. But not in a bad way.

“Oh god, Snow,” he says quietly. I can feel his cool breath on me.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, petting his hair, pushing it out of his face.

“You’re too beautiful to be real.”

I choke on a nervous laugh. “Shut up, Baz. You’re so stupid.”

He kisses the same spot again, lips lingering a little longer. It does the job of shutting me up nicely. Then he moves up, one little kiss at a time, each one destroying me a bit more until he’s reached the tip. He kisses there too. I’ve never been this hard in my life.

“I definitely don’t have that many freckles there,” I say weakly.

“Do you want me to stop?”

I shake my head. “Kind of never want you to stop.”

“I don’t want to either.” He kisses the tip again and now I think I’m allowed to say I’ve seen porn because this is porn. It has to be. “I’ve thought about this so many times.”

My insides are writhing around like a bunch of snakes. “Yeah?” I want him to tell me more. In between kisses.

It’s like he can read my mind. He starts peppering them slowly all over, so I never know where the next one is going to go. “It feels different than I imagined,” he says. “Softer.”

On the next kiss, his lips part enough for his tongue to lick me. Just a little, light enough that I could be convinced I’d imagined it if I hadn’t watched it happen.

“I never thought about it,” I admit. “But I’ll probably never be able to think about anything else ever again.”

**Baz**

I wonder if he knows how hard he’s pulling my hair. I’m afraid to draw attention to it in case he thinks I’m asking him to stop. I’m not even really doing anything, just kissing, mostly. Maybe a little swipe of my tongue when I can’t physically stop myself. But the hair pulling would suggest he doesn’t hate it.

He smells different here. A little sharper, something even more human. Or more animal. I don’t know. It’s something new. My gums are itching like mad, but I’d throw myself into a bonfire before letting my fangs drop when my mouth is this close to his cock.

Crowley. My mouth is on Simon Snow’s cock.

How many times have I fantasized about this? Surely hundreds. If not more. In the fantasies, though, I knew what to do. I wasn’t afraid of disappointing him, because my imagined version of Simon was always delighted by whatever I did to him.

He is very hard right now. That has to be a good sign. I only spotted three freckles, but I’ve kissed him as though he’s got at least fifty. I’d like to go on forever.

I’d like to taste him properly, feel the weight of him on my tongue. It feels almost crass to think about now that I’m so close, now that it’s real and not just the dirty imaginings of a lonely teenager. I don’t know if he understands how far I’d like to take it, but asking feels impossible.

Pulling away feels equally impossible. So I keep kissing. Maybe we really could just stay here like this forever. I’ll keep kissing up and down until he pushes me away or begs me to do it properly.

I don’t have to wait long.

**Simon**

“Baz.”

He lifts his head right away, wide eyed like he’s afraid he’s done something wrong. “What?”

“Do you want to… do more?” I don’t know how to say it without sounding like a _classless cave-dwelling cretin_ , as he once called me. They’re not words I’ve ever spoken before. It’s not something I’ve ever done or had done to me or really thought about at all. Of course the boys in the homes talked, they talked about all kinds of sex stuff, but they made it sound dirty. There was no respect in the way they described the girls they did these things with, and I have more respect for Baz than I know what to do with. It’s making me awkward.

“Do I _want_ to?” he echoes. “Is that a real question?”

“Yes?”

“Do _you_ want to? Do you want me to…?”

I nod my head. The view from my vantage point is practically obscene, and I guess in the end, Penny was right. I’m still just a bloke, and hormones are rushing through me with an intensity I’ve never experienced before.

“Are you sure?”

“Baz,” I growl. “Just—” I lift my hips a little. “Please.”

He turns his head to the side and bites the inside of my thigh. His fangs aren’t out; it doesn’t break the skin. But it makes me gasp.

“I’ve never done this before,” he says softly.

“No shit. Neither have I.” I’m not trying to be rude, I just feel a bit wild.

“Tell me if you hate it and I’ll stop.”

**Baz**

He doesn’t hate it. He’s watching me intently, and even though I feel like a bumbling amateur, he’s looking at me like I’m anything but. His chest is flushed a beautiful deep pink colour and he’s still got me by the hair. He’s not pulling now, though. He’s running his fingers through it, occasionally taking breaks to stroke my cheek or cup my jaw.

My jaw is a bit sore, but it’s a dull ache that’s easily ignored in the face of how erotic this whole experience is. The noises he’s making, the warmth of him, the taste. His undivided attention. The complete lack of fear. There’s tension, yes, and the nerves that come with doing something new and intensely intimate, but there’s no fear. None in my heart and none on his face. It took us years to get here and I would’ve waited years more. I could have waited a lifetime. I didn’t need this to be happy, but I’m glad I get to have it. I’m glad I get to give it to him.

I’m glad I get to show him that sometimes things are good and safe. To be honest, I’m glad he’s showing me that too. Because there were times I thought he might be right, that some people just weren’t built to be happy, and I was one of them. It wasn’t in my DNA.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Fuck.” His neck stretches as his head tips back, and he jerks his hips to the side to pull himself from my mouth.

I’m not insecure enough to think it’s because he’s suddenly decided he doesn’t like it. We’re long past that now. I lean down and kiss the top of his thigh. There are plenty of freckles there.

“Why does it feel like that?” he asks, pushing his hair up off his forehead.

“Like what?”

“Like… so good.”

I smile sheepishly, hiding my face against his hip. “Does it?”

“Yeah. It’s mental. I thought you said you haven’t done this before.”

“What?” I lift my head to frown at him. “I haven’t.”

“Then why are you so good at it?”

If all the blood in my body wasn’t currently swelled between my legs, I’d be blushing. “I don’t know that I am.”

“Fuck off.”

“I think you’re just easy, Snow.”

“Yeah, well. I guess we’ll see when I do it to you.”

There’s a spasm in my gut. “When you…”

“You’re just irritatingly good at everything and I’m not. So don’t get your hopes up. You may not even like it.”

I’m still reeling that he even thinks he wants to do it all. The question of whether or not I’ll _like_ it is a ridiculous one. So ridiculous, in fact, that I don’t bother telling him how idiotic he is for suggesting it.

“Are you feeling irritated right now?” I ask, raising my eyebrow.

“No. I’m stalling.”

I chuckle, worrying the thin skin that stretches over his hip bone with my teeth. “Well stop.”

“I’m gonna finish so fast, though.”

“Good. I want you to.”

He draws the pad of his thumb over my eyebrow. “But I don’t want it to be over.”

“I’ll do it again.”

“You will?”

I nod.

“When?”

“Whenever the bloody hell you want me to, Snow.”

“You actually like it?” I can tell by his tone that he isn’t fishing. He doesn’t just want to hear me vocalize that I’m enjoying myself. He wants to know that it’s true.

“I love it.” I go ahead and kiss one of the freckles that actually does exist on his cock. “You’re beautiful. Your noises are beautiful. Making you feel good is my favourite thing in the world. Your naked body turns me on in a way that’s almost violent.”

“That sounds bad.”

“It’s not, Simon. It’s not bad. Nothing about this is bad. I promise.”

He bites his lip and nods. “Can you keep going?”

**Simon**

We go back to sleep afterwards. I didn’t return the favour, but I promised myself I would soon. Maybe tonight, when I don’t feel all wobbly and boneless. I really want to do it. I want to know what it feels like. I want to see if I can make him feel anything like what he made me feel.

He falls asleep first, and I watch him for a while. I don’t think I’m being creepy. He just looks so peaceful.

I’m trying not to think about anything but how happy he makes me. There’s still so much I’m afraid of, but my relationship with him isn’t one of them anymore, and I’d like to bask in that for a while before anything scary creeps back in.

So I lay my head down with my face just a few inches from his and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.


	14. Chapter 14

**Baz**

“Fuck if I know.”

That’s Fiona’s answer when I ask her how vampires Turn people.

Then she adds, “Do you not know?”

I make sure to give her my most disdainful look. “How would I know?”

“Because you are one?”

“Do you think I have some kind of psychic vampire powers?”

“Shh,” she hisses, looking around the shop. “Jesus, Baz. It’s supposed to be a secret.”

There’s no one here right now but Snow, leaned back against the counter looking bored. I look pointedly in his direction and then back at Fiona. “Pretty sure he already knows.”

She smacks my arm. “You never know who could be listening.”

I roll my eyes and take a sip of my tea. Her job as a slayer seems to make her a little more paranoid every day.

“Do you genuinely not know?” I ask. “I assumed you’d be an expert on all this stuff by now.”

She shrugs, putting her feet up on the edge of the table. Simon chirps her for it, and she, of course, pays him absolutely no mind. “I don’t make a habit of getting to know the monsters I dispose of, Basilton.”

“Right, but surely you’d need to know so you can take precautions?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Do you not take any precautions?” I ask.

“It’s a risky gig. I knew that going in.”

I can’t remember much of my aunt from before my mother died, but I imagine she must have been different. Less reckless. It hits me suddenly that the event that shaped the course of the rest of my life also shaped hers. She didn’t lose her humanity as I did, but she lost her sister, and seemingly a piece of herself as well. I’ve tried to move on; she hasn’t. She still lives and breathes that loss and the anger she feels because of it.

I wish I knew what to say to make any of it feel alright for her. It’s been more than fifteen years. She deserves some respite.

“Why do you want to know, anyway?” She eyes me sharply over her mug. “Planning on immortalizing the Chosen One once and for all?”

“Of course not. The exact opposite. Obviously. I want to be sure it won’t happen… accidentally.”

“Well he hasn’t been Turned yet, has he? Just keep on as you are.”

I’m not sure I can do that. I want Simon’s blood as much as he wants to give it to me. I can only hold out for so long. But I say, “Right,” and let the subject drop. I’m more likely to tell her about mine and Snow’s sex life than I am to reveal that we’re both kind of struggling to stop ourselves from giving in to our urges.

She leaves the shop about half an hour later, but not before sliding a little tin box across the table to me. I look inside and there’s a row of neatly rolled joints.

“They’re for Simon,” she says.

I don’t think she’s ever called him by his actual name. I’m too surprised to scold her for roping me into a drug deal in the middle of my boyfriend’s place of work. She ruffles my hair and then waves to Simon on her way out. I shove the tin in my pocket and look around to make sure there’s no one around whose memory I have to try to spell away.

But the shop is still empty. Now it’s just me and him.

“How do they afford to keep this place open?” I ask.

“It was busier earlier.” He pushes off from the counter and grabs a scone from the case before coming to sit on the other side of my little table. “All the business happens in the morning.”

That explains why I missed it. I’d shown up in the afternoon, after my classes for the day were over. I hadn’t told Snow I was coming and the smile on his face when I stepped in was blinding. I’d been doing schoolwork on my laptop when Fiona rang, asking if I was free for a chat. I told her to meet me here.

Now that I think of it, she hadn’t said anything that seemed pressing in the hour we sat here together. Nothing that would have compelled her to seek me out instead of just texting or asking me over the phone.

I suppose she just wanted to see me.

I watch Snow eat his scone, relishing his showy swallow. He manages to get crumbs everywhere, but for once I don’t point it out. He’s the one who’s going to have to clean it up, after all.

“Are you leaving now then?” he asks.

“Do you want me to?”

He shrugs. “Fi’s gone. I’m sure you’d rather be at home.”

“I’d rather be where you are, if it’s all the same to you.”

He smiles. “It’s not. I’d be happy if you stayed.”

“It’s settled, then.”

He reaches across the table and strokes over my knuckles with his thumb. It’s a brief touch, but a lovely one. He’s so lovely.

He got his hair cut yesterday. The sides are trimmed short and his curls no longer dangle into his eyes. He looks much more put together now. A bit older. Gorgeous, to be sure, although inexplicably I find myself missing the shaggy poodle look just a little.

“How long til closing?” I ask.

“‘Bout an hour, maybe.” He brushes crumbs off his lap. “Poppy said I should close up early if no one’s coming in.”

I nod, and we lapse into silence.

Simon and I aren’t talkers. We can talk, and we’re doing a much better job of it lately, especially when there are things that need to be said, but we don’t need words between us for things to feel alright. Much of our time together is spent in amiable silence. It’s comfortable.

Usually. Right now I can sense a haze of unease around him. He’s leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest, chewing on his lip as he stares out the window.

“Do you like working?” I ask. I’m going to distract him. I know he’s thinking about something he’d rather not be.

“Huh?”

“You said you wanted to get a job to feel more purposeful, right? Is it working?”

He shrugs. “It’s good to get out of the house sometimes.”

“Right.”

“I guess I’m not that good of a barista. I still mostly feel useless. But at least I can contribute to rent now.”

“I’m sure you’re a brilliant barista, Snow.” I nudge his foot with mine. “King of coffee. Master of macchiatos. Lord of… uhh….”

He smirks. “You’re a dingus.”

**Simon**

Sometimes it almost scares me how well Baz knows me. He could just tell I was feeling twisty inside, and immediately started working on trying to distract me.

“Go on, then,” he says. “Make us a drink, O Caffeinated One. I’m ready to bow down to your beverage crafting prowess. Grace me with one of your creations.”

I roll my eyes. “They’re not my creations, they’re the shop’s.”

“And he’s humble, too,” Baz says. “Will his virtues never cease?”

“If I make you a drink will you shut up?”

“Indubitably.”

I know what he’s doing, and I love him for it. I head back behind the counter and over to the espresso machine. He follows me, leaning up against the customer side of the bar to watch.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Surprise me.”

I've only been working here about a month. The only reason I get by without Poppy here to help me is because the menu is straightforward and not making any claims of grandeur. We’ve got coffee and tea and a few syrups to add to lattes. People don’t come in here because the drinks are better than anyone else’s. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure why anyone _does_ come in here.

I grind the beans. I tamp down the espresso. I pull two shots into a mug. I know he was kidding before, but I do kind of want not to make a fool of myself in front of him, so I try to look like I know what I’m doing. I feel a bit daft. Like an imposter. Like he’s going to call me out. I know he isn’t, but his eyes on me are slightly unnerving.

Until he says, “I like your hands.”

I look up. “What?”

“They’re good hands.”

I try to contain my smile. “Shut up. What kind of milk do you want?”

“I’m partial to the bovine variety.”

“Not coconut?”

“I’m fairly certain that coconuts don’t have mammary glands.”

“I’m giving you coconut.”

He leans his elbow on the bar and his chin on his fist, blinking at me like a cartoon character. “Alright then. You’re the artist.”

I pump a bunch of mocha into the mug. “You’re so annoying.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean. I’m simply admiring your handiwork.”

I pull on the steam wand. The milk makes a horrible screeching noise before I get the pitcher situated properly.

“What should we have for dinner tonight?” he asks

“Nothing. I don’t even know you. You’re just a weird customer with a strange coffee fetish.”

“A fit weird customer though, yeah?”

I look up at him again to find him grinning. Fit is a huge fucking understatement.

“He’s alright, I guess.” I pour the milk into the mug and put his drink up on the bar. “He’s got nice eyes.”

“He doesn’t have a coffee fetish,” Baz says. “He just fancies you.”

I snort. “Is this that thing… whatsit… role play?”

He cocks his eyebrow at me.

“Shut up.” I reach out across the bar to grab a handful of his collar and pull him in to kiss me. To stop him from making fun of me, and also just because I want to. Then I pull away. “I want Nandos by the way.”

**Baz**

The drink is good. I’m not lying about that when I tell him. He won’t believe me until I make him taste it. A few more customers trickle in, just enough that he doesn’t end up closing very early at all.

I help him clean up, putting the chairs up on the tables so he can sweep and mop the floor. I offer to use magic, but he just points up at one of the security cameras. He’s gone back to the pensive, slightly troubled mood from earlier, but I don’t try to make myself stupid to cheer him up this time. Sometimes feelings just need to be felt.

I don’t understand what’s bothering him until he bags up the leftover pastries.

Once the shop is clean and the cash is counted and there’s nothing left for him to do to put it off any longer, we head outside. I shiver as he locks up, wishing I’d dressed more warmly.

“It’s fucking freezing,” I grumble.

He pockets the keys. “Is it?” The words leave his mouth in a cloud of mist. He feels about a thousand miles away.

“Simon.”

“What.”

“If you tell me where to go, I can do that for you.”

That seems to pull him back to me. “What?”

“I don’t want you going there if it’s going to upset you this much.”

“I’m not upset.”

I don’t want to push him, but I think it’s clear to both of us that what he just said isn’t the truth. At least not the whole truth.

“I’m not upset,” he says again. “Just come with me and I’ll be alright. Okay?” He holds his hand out.

I take it, slipping my fingers between his and letting him lead the way.

It doesn’t take long to get there. As we approach the building, he lets go of my hand and jams it into his coat pocket. There are a few people milled outside, sitting on the stairs in front of the building smoking cigarettes. They all look young, which I suppose makes sense.

I’ve a distinct feeling of dread knotting up my insides, but before it can fester, one of the guys sat on the steps waves at us. “Alright, lads?” he asks cheerfully. It wasn’t at all what I was expecting.

Simon nods. “Alright?”

I feel about as out of place as I ever have. Simon always says I radiate posh energy without even trying, and I’ve always kind of taken that as a point of pride, but suddenly I’m not proud at all.

The boys make room for us to climb the steps to the front door, and Simon rings the bell. His shoulders are hiked up almost to his ears, and I can’t tell if it’s a defense mechanism or just because he’s cold. The urge to touch him is strong, to remind that he’s not alone, but I think what he needs most right now is to feel in control.

The door opens and a burly man with a bald head and bushy beard grins and says, “Simon! Always a sight for sore eyes, you are. Come in, come in.”

I follow him in, warmth engulfing me. The place smells a little of smoke and also a million other things; sweat and dirt and food and soap and even a bit of piss. There’s lots of noise, people chattering and laughing though we can’t see them from where we’re stood in the entrance.

“Who’s this then?” the man asks, looking at me. He says it in a friendly way, like he’s delighted to meet one of Simon’s mates.

I expect to be introduced as such, but Simon says, “This is my boyfriend, Baz.”

“Baz.” He holds his hand out and I shake it. “Rob.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Any friend of Simon’s is a friend of mine.” He lets go of my hand and claps me on the shoulder.

Simon holds the bag of pastries out to him. “Sorry, there’s less than usual. It was busier today.”

“No worries, Simon. We take what we can get around here, don’t we? Every little bit helps.”

Simon nods, his hands immediately returning to his pockets. “Seems busy in here.”

“It’s taco night,” Rob says. “Always draws a crowd.”

“Tacos, wow. We never had anything that good in care.”

The smile on Rob’s face shifts, and I can tell this is information Simon hasn’t shared with him before. I’m not even sure he meant to now. It seemed to just slip out, a suspicion that is confirmed when he very quickly changes the subject.

“Poppy said you’re looking for volunteers.”

Suddenly his melancholy introspective mood makes perfect sense to me.

“Aye. Could use some help around here, but unfortunately I can’t afford to hire anyone properly.”

“Don’t you get any assistance from the government?”

“A little, but it’s not even enough to cover the food.” He smiles. “Mostly we run this place on the generosity of good people like you and Poppy.”

Simon says, “That’s bullshit.”

My heart kicks. I look at him and he’s already got an apologetic expression on.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I just meant that—”

“I know, mate.” Rob pats him on the shoulder. “It pisses me off sometimes, too. I just try to focus on the fact that we’re still kicking after all these years because some people do care. Not as many as I’d like, but enough to get by.”

The front door opens then and the boys who were having a smoke step inside.

“Better hurry or all the meat and cheese’ll be gone, lads,” Rob tells them. “You’ll be having lettuce and salsa tacos.”

They shout a bunch of good natured curses and barrel off. I can’t help thinking how easy it might have been for Simon to end up like any of them. It makes me immeasurably angry. I understand now why he comes home with a heaviness whenever he’s been here.

“Do people need qualifications to volunteer?” Simon asks.

“Just a clean criminal record.”

Simon nods, and a long silence stretches out. It’s loaded down heavily, and I’m sure Rob knows as well as I do what’s going on in Simon’s head.

“Right,” Simon says eventually. “Well, we’ll be off now. You should try to grab a taco for yourself before everything’s gone. See you next time.”

“Take care of yourself, Simon,” Rob says. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

**Simon**

It feels good to step back out into the cold. Helps clear my head a bit.

It’s snowing. Big fat soft flakes that melt when they touch my skin. I reach out and take Baz’s hand. His fingers are already frozen, so I wedge both our hands inside my pocket.

“Thanks for coming with me.”

“Rob seems nice.”

“He is.”

“I’ve never understood people like that,” Baz says. “Especially in his line of work. He seems so… happy.”

I shrug. “I reckon it feels good to be part of helping people like that.”

Baz is quiet for a bit, and so am I. My head is swimming. We walk past the Nandos, but neither of us say anything. I’ll just have some cereal later.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get tacos,” Baz says quietly. “You deserved tacos.”

I squeeze his hand.

“Should we have tacos tonight?” he asks. “Are you still hungry?”

-

We go to Tesco and buy the ingredients. Baz spells his backpack bottomless so he can slip his hand back into my pocket for the walk home.

It’s snowing even more than before. The flakes drift down lazily and Baz shivers. “I always hated snow.”

“Thanks,” I quip.

“Shut up.” He bumps his shoulder into mine. “It’s cold and wet. Not my favourite combination.”

I look up at the sky, but even when I blink I can’t see anything through my wet eyelashes. “I guess it always felt kind of personal to me. Because of my name and all. It felt like it belonged to me.”

“I bet whoever named you loved the snow. They named you after something they loved.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

It’s a nice thought. I think I’ll try to hold on to it.

**Baz**

I can concede that the snow is pretty, and seeing it through Simon’s eyes has dramatically softened my disdain for it.

But it’s still cold and wet.

We’re lying in bed now and I’m still chilled. I press my wintry fingers against Simon’s stomach and there’s a sharp inhale of breath from his side of the bed, but he doesn’t push me away. Actually he pulls me closer, until my cheek rests against his chest.

He’s quiet. He’s been quiet since we left the shop. I trace circles around his navel under the duvet, already feeling warmer. His skin just radiates sunshine.

He’s playing with my hair absentmindedly. It feels incredible, but there’s an emotional wall between us preventing me from enjoying the physical closeness.

“Simon,” I say, finally breaking the silence.

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to do it?”

He doesn’t ask me to clarify, just takes a deep breath and exhales it heavily. “I think I have to. I just…” There’s a very long pause. “It feels like something I’m supposed to do.”

“I think it’s a good idea.”

His hand stills. “You do?”

“Yes. I think it might be the purpose you’ve been looking for.”

He brushes my hair off my neck and drags his fingers lightly over my skin. It’s almost enough to distract me. It would be on any other day, but this moment is a huge one. It’s quiet, but I know it’s shattering the ground he walks on.

I’m scared for him. Part of me wants to tell him not to do it, that he doesn’t always have to lay himself on the line for the good of everyone else. But I think a larger part recognizes that he needs this. And it could be good. It really could be.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It feels like it could be.”

“Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“Put yourself first.” I tilt my head up to look at him. “No self sacrificing.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll probably just be, like, ladling soup or something.”

“Simon.”

“It’s not—”

“For me,” I interrupt. “If you need a reason to take care of yourself, do it for me. Because my happiness depends almost entirely on you remaining in one piece. Psychologically as much as physically.”

“Okay,” he says quietly.

I push up onto my elbow and look down at him. He looks right back, eyes darting back and forth to take all of me in. “Baz.”

“Yes.”

“We’re staying here for Christmas, okay?”

“Are we?”

“Yeah. With Penny and Shepard.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It was her idea.”

I lean down and kiss him. “I think that might be the best idea she’s ever had.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Simon**

Baz doesn’t sleep much in the weeks leading up to exams. He stays up til the wee hours revising, sometimes not coming to bed until I physically drag him. He wakes up tired and forgoes his usual tea for coffee spiked with blood.

He and Penny declare the kitchen table the study zone, and they basically camp out there whenever they’re not on their respective campuses. When I’m home, I try to make myself useful by making sure they’ve got their caffeinated beverages of choice; I am a barista after all.

I’m actually not home that much anymore, though. Business at Poppy’s picks up considerably, which I’d assumed would be more tiring than usual, but actually, it makes the time go by so much faster that I’m often surprised when the sun’s gone down and it’s time to start closing up. More customers means fewer pastries for me to bring to Rob, but I make up for it by doing whatever the bloody hell he asks me to.

He didn’t seem at all surprised when I told him I was interested in volunteering. We sat in his cramped little office, surrounded by stacks of papers and notebooks and pens and dirty mugs half full of tea and chatted for hours. Technically I guess that was my interview, but really it was just a conversation. A conversation in which he managed to make me feel safe describing the events of my life so far, editing out the bits about magic and vampires but including my abandonment as a baby and my childhood in care homes and the man who would pluck me from that world only to neglect me unless he thought I could be of use to him.

He tells me about his life too, about a broken home and addiction and eventual homelessness, and the people he met along the way who helped him turn his life around.

“I want to be that person for as many kids as I can,” he told me.

It’s hard some days. I take things personally. I hear stories of hardship and abuse and sometimes I can’t separate myself from them. They seep into me and colour my view of the world and the people living it. They make me angry, and I go home feeling like I’ve made a mistake, bitten off way more than I can chew.

And some days are amazing. Some days I serve a hot meal to someone who hasn’t had one in months. I play board games with kids who’ve gotten used to living their lives without fun. I see resilience and optimism and kindness and it’s impossible not to be inspired.

Baz comes to pick me up most nights. It’s the only break he gets from schoolwork. I know he’s kind of babysitting me, but I don’t mind. It’s nice to hold his hand as we walk home. Most of the shop owners have put up lights in their windows, and sometimes there’s even music playing.

“Did you tell your dad about Christmas?” I ask him one night.

“Yes.”

“How’d he take it?”

“He wasn’t pleased.”

“Do you want to change your mind?”

He squeezes my hand. “Absolutely not. I told him we’d stop by sometime later. Maybe the twenty seventh, or whenever you have a day off work.”

“We?” I ask.

“Yes, Snow. We. And if you don’t want to, we won’t.”

“You’ll want to see your siblings though, yeah?”

“It would be nice to see them. But I don’t want to go without you.”

“Of course I’ll go with you.” I squeeze his hand back. “But only if Daphne makes pancakes again.”

-

Penny and I go out one afternoon to find a tree. Baz has one exam left, but Pen is all finished, and Shepard gets in tomorrow. She says she wants the tree set up so the four of us can decorate it together. Baz suggested we order one from the service that sends a delivery man in a kilt, but I’ve never picked out a tree before. I wanted to do it properly.

Penny is so happy it’s almost weird. She buys me a latte from Starbucks that tastes like gingerbread and I make her promise not to tell Poppy about my lapse in loyalty. She gets a chai latte made with eggnog and we sip them as we wander around town. It’s nice. It’s really nice. She loops her arm through mine and pulls me into every shop we pass that sells Christmas ornaments.

I’ve no idea what makes a tree good or bad, and it seems she doesn’t either. We end up picking a small one, mostly just because we know it’ll be easier to carry back to the flat.

The floor is decorated with pine needles by the time we get the tree set up, but the apartment smells amazing. She hoovers up while I make us a tea of whatever random bits and bobs I can find in the fridge: hummus and cucumber, cheese on toast, and sliced apples with peanut butter. She tells me it’s too much food, but there’s nothing left over by the time we’ve finished watching two episodes of Bake Off.

“How are you, Simon?” she asks out of nowhere.

“What? I’m fine.”

“No, I mean like, in general. I’ve been so distracted lately.”

I shrug. “S’okay. You’ve got uni and a new boyfriend.”

“He’s not technically my boyfriend. I don’t think. I don’t know.”

“Don’t be daft, Pen.”

“He lives in America. And he’s a Normal. And he’s literally cursed.”

“And you fancy him.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No but. If you like each other you can figure the rest out. Baz and I should be all the proof you need of that.”

She smiles. “You might be right.”

“I am. For once.”

“Oh shut up.” She stretches out her leg and nudges her socked toes into the side of my thigh. “How’s that going, by the way?”

“What, me and Baz?”

She nods. “Did you talk to him about the sex stuff?”

“Eventually.”

“Did you work it out?”

I shrug. “Eventually? Sort of. I mean, it’s a process, I guess.”

“That’s brilliant, Simon. I’m really happy for you.”

“Are you and Shepard gonna…?”

Her face goes all sheepish. “Shut up, I don’t know. We haven’t even kissed yet. We haven’t even held hands. Fuck’s sake, we’ve never even _hugged_.”

“You will tomorrow. Hug, at least.”

She looks like a schoolgirl, and not because of the skirt and knee socks. “Yeah. We will.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather me and Baz clear out for Christmas? Give you two some space?”

“Of course not. I want to spend Christmas with my best friend.” She scoots down the sofa so she can grab me by the shoulders. “You’re going to have a good holiday if it’s the last sodding thing I do, Simon.”

“I already am,” I tell her, leaning headfirst into the sentimentality of it all. “Even if all we did was eat beans and watch telly next to our little tree, it’d still be the best Christmas of my life.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

“We’re not going to eat beans.”

“What are we going to eat?”

She laughs. “Of course that would be your number one concern.”

“You know me.”

“I do,” she says fondly. “I do know you.”

**Baz**

My last exam of the first semester of my second year of university is over. I over prepared for it, as I seem to always do. Perhaps that’s something I need to confront, my unrelenting drive for academic perfection at the cost of basic self care like eating and sleeping, but for now I’m just going to enjoy the freedom.

Snow and Bunce are in the kitchen when I get home; I can hear them banging around in there as I take off my boots and hang up my coat. The flat smells of sugar and cinnamon, and when I go to investigate, I find Simon covered in flour and Bunce sat at the table icing gingerbread men.

Snow’s face lights up when he sees me. “Baz!” He wipes his hands on his shirt and then reaches out and grabs the back of my neck to pull me in for a kiss right in front of Bunce. For once, she doesn’t chide us for flirting in front of her.

It’s far too much enthusiasm for a person he sees every single day, but I’m feeling in the mood to match it, so I grab him right back and dip him. He shrieks happily and throws his head back, laughing. I kiss his neck and only feel overwhelmed by bloodlust for a few seconds before I stand him back up.

“You two have been productive,” I say, looking at the table full of biscuits. “Father Christmas has his work cut out for him.”

“We both know I could eat all of these in a couple days,” Simon says, picking up a gingerbread man and biting his head off. “But these are for the kids at Horizons.”

“Oh.” I take the biscuit from his hand and bite off a leg. “They’re good.”

“‘Course they’re good,” Bunce says, not looking up from her decorating. “I’ve been making these every Christmas since I was like four. I’ve perfected the art.”

“It was Penny’s idea to make them for the kids,” Simon tells me.

“You’re just full of good ideas lately, aren’t you Bunce?”

“Lately,” she scoffs.

Simon takes my hand. “I was hoping you’d come with me to drop them off?”

-

I swear it gets colder every day. I thought England was meant to be a fucking temperate climate, but I can see Simon’s breath and the chill feels like it’s seeping into my bones. I decided to forgo a scarf in an attempt to look less posh, but I’m regretting that decision now.

When my teeth start chattering, Simon looks at me with concern. “You’re that cold?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not at all.” He takes off his hat and plonks it on my head. “You need to dress warmer.”

“But it ruins my aesthetic.”

He studies me for a moment. “Nah, it doesn’t. You look well cute.”

“Cute is _not_ my aesthetic.”

“You’re failing, then, mate.”

“Tomorrow we’re staying in,” I declare. “I’m going to pile myself with blankets and not move from the sofa all day.”

“Shepard’s arriving tomorrow,” he reminds me.

“Bunce can deal with him.”

“We’re meant to decorate the tree.”

I make a show of rolling my eyes. “Fine. I’ll get up to hang some tacky baubles on the Charlie Brown tree. But that’s it.”

“It’s not a Charlie Brown tree.” He shoves me away from him, then immediately grabs my arm and pulls me back. “And the baubles aren’t tacky.”

“They are.”

“Well…” He pauses. “Fine. They are. But it’s endearing.”

“I suppose it is,” I concede.

-

When we get to the shelter, I make to stand outside and wait for him, assuming he’ll just be running in and dropping off the biscuits, but he gives me a look and tugs on my sleeve. I follow him reluctantly into the house when Rob opens the door to us. Even more reluctantly and at Simon’s continued insistence, I follow him to a large open room with a long table around which are sat at least twenty teenagers.

Several of them shout Simon’s name, and he smiles back at them, waving and holding up the two giant tupperwares of biscuits he’s got for them. A cheer erupts from the table.

Rob comes up beside me. “Alright, mate?”

I nod.

“That’s a good lad you’ve got there,” he says.

“I know.”

“He fits in here like a glove. Everyone loves him.”

“It’s only been a few weeks,” I say, not argumentatively, or at least not intentionally so.

Rob nods. “He’s got a gift. Knows how to talk to these kids.”

My heart pangs at the combination of Rob’s words and the mental image I will always carry with me: Simon at eleven, skinny and quiet and dressed in ill fitting hand me downs. “That’s because he is one.”

Rob puts his hand on my shoulder briefly and squeezes. Then he says, “C’mon. Let’s go give him a hand.”

-

We stay about half an hour before I manage to convince him that it’s time to go. While he’d seemed so happy handing out gingerbread men and interacting with London’s troubled youth, once we're outside he’s quiet and pensive.

I slip my hand in his pocket without an invitation. His palm is warm where I press mine against it.

“Thanks for coming with,” he says quietly. “I know it makes you uncomfortable.”

“What? It doesn’t.”

“It does. I can tell.”

“Simon,” I say, and he looks at me. “It doesn’t.”

He shrugs. “Not your aesthetic.”

I stop walking abruptly, forcing him to stop too. “Hey.”

He won’t look at me now, so I know he knows he’s hurt me. I’ll always give him the benefit of the doubt, so I take a breath before I say anything. “I know you had it hard in ways I didn’t. I fucking hate that you did.”

“I know.” His voice is so small. “Sorry.”

“You’re not that person anymore, Simon. No one can hurt you now.”

He nods, letting go of my hand so he can scrub his own down his face. He takes a big shaky breath and blows it out like he’s releasing all the resurgent trauma. “Yeah.”

“I know you think I’m a posh git,” I say, rubbing his back. “But—”

“I don’t.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Okay, I do, but I didn’t mean what I said. I was lashing out.”

“I know.” I lean in and kiss his temple, his hair tickling my nose. “It’s alright.”

He turns his head to catch my mouth with his, right there on the pavement for all to see. It’s not news to me that Simon Snow is unfailingly brave, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop being impressed by it.

He’s kissing me for real, tongue and all, so I slip my wand out of my sleeve and glance around to make sure no one’s watching before I cast a hasty _ **“Nothing to see here.”**_

He reaches up and loops his arms around the back of my neck. “Sometimes I forget you can still do stuff like that.”

“I try not to unless it’s urgent,” I murmur, pressing my forehead to his. “Like now, for instance.”

“You can though. You should.”

“It feels cruel.”

“It’s not. I don’t want to be yet another person who makes you feel like you can’t be who you are.”

“Okay.” I kiss him long and slow. “Thank you.”

**Simon**

Baz is shivering like a madman by the time we get home. I’m sure he could have cast something to keep himself warm, but he didn’t. Next time I’ll make him.

For now I’ve got a better idea. As soon as Baz has got his coat and boots off I drag him to the bathroom. Penny’s in there, using magic to scrub the toilet. She’s got some sort of green muck on her face.

“A very good look for you, Bunce,” Baz says. “Goblin chic.”

“Shut up.”

“Our biscuits were a big hit,” I tell her.

“Of course they were.” She smiles. “I’m glad.”

“Can we make more tomorrow? I want some for myself.”

“Of course. After we decorate the tree.” She’s using her ring to direct the scrub brush, and she’s directing it so vigorously that it actually makes a squeaking noise against the porcelain.

“I think it’s clean, Pen.”

“Oh.” She drops her hand. “Right.”

Baz asks, “A tad nervous, are we?”

“I just want the place to look decent.”

“It always looks decent,” he says. “I make sure of that. Now kindly get out of here. Snow’s going to have his way with me in the bath.”

Her entire face scrunches up. “Oh for fuck’s— I don’t need to hear that, Basil. Nicks and Slick.”

“Baz,” I say. “Go get fresh towels.”

“There’s already—”

“Get more,” I demand.

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.

“He’s kidding,” I say to Penny once Baz is gone. “I mean, we are gonna have a bath, but—”

“It’s fine, Simon.” She stands up from where she’d been sat on the edge of the tub and goes to the sink to wash the mud off her face. “It’s our thing, isn’t it, Baz and I? Pretending to be annoyed by each other. Have sex in the bath if you want to. I hope you have fun.”

I feel my cheeks go red.

“Just please be careful. I scrubbed it down for like an hour. It’s very clean and probably very slippery.”

I don’t argue with her anymore. I don’t know how Baz knew I was after more than just a shared soak, but he wasn’t wrong.

So I deflect. “It’s gonna be good, Pen. And he doesn’t care about how clean the toilet is.”

She grabs a towel and shoves her face into it. “Yeah. I know. I can’t distract myself with revising anymore, so I guess obsessive cleaning felt like the next best thing.”

She’s got her back to me, facing the mirror. She puts her glasses back on and stares at her reflection. It’s so rare to witness her express any hint of insecurity that I can’t bear it. I grab the back of her jumper and yank her towards me, ignoring her yelp of protest to wrap my arms around her shoulders from behind. She hates shows of affection like this, but I don’t care.

“It’s going to be good, Penelope.”

She nods, reaching a hand up to touch my arm. “I know.”

-

I think I’ve made the bath as hot as a human could physically stand a bath to be, but as soon as Baz dips a finger in to check, he shakes his head. “I thought this was meant to warm me up.”

“I know you’re a vampire, but you still have skin.”

“Vampire skin,” he corrects. His wand materializes from the inside of his sleeve. _**“Some like it hot.”**_

“Some like it fucking scalding,” I mutter. The water is literally boiling now. I can see bubbles. “Guess I’m not having my way after all.”

“You absolutely are.” He puts his wand on the counter beside the sink and then reaches for me, tugging up on the bottom of my shirt. I let him pull it off. It drops to the floor in a crumpled heap. “Now take mine off, please.”

I do, trailing my fingers down his chest and abs. “Fuck. You are cold.”

“Warm me up, Snow.”

-

Baz and I stand chest to chest in our bathroom kissing for a long time. His icy skin brings my own body temperature down enough that the heat of the water when we finally step into it is actually a relief. It’s hot enough that it still makes my skin go pink. Baz points out that it camouflages the freckles a bit.

I sit behind him. I guess that’s our thing. Our sitting in the bath together thing. I’m not complaining. He leans back against me. I brush his hair off one shoulder and lean down to kiss it.

“How old were you when you decided to grow your hair out?”

“I always had long hair. My mother liked to play with it.”

“Oh. That’s a nice memory.”

“Mhm.”

“It looks good on you.” I brush my lips up the curve of his neck and kiss behind his ear. “I reckon I’ve always been a bit obsessed with your hair.”

“Really?”

I nod.

“I’ve always been obsessed with your everything.”

“I was obsessed with your legs for sure,” I say. “Specifically the thighs.”

He chuckles. “The footballer ones.”

“Yeah, those ones. I used to think I was just jealous of how well you played.”

“Let’s not pretend you weren’t.”

“Fine. I was. But I also liked the look of the way you moved.”

I feel the deep breath he takes as he drops his head back onto my shoulder. “I always tried harder when you were there.”

“I was always there.”

“You were always bloody there,” he agrees. “Even when I wished you weren’t. Even when I just wanted to brood over you in peace.”

I slip my arms around his waist. “I’m not gonna apologize for that.”

“Not asking you to.” He flattens one of my hands against his stomach.

I rub. He sighs, closing his eyes and melting into me. The faucet is digging into my back, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now. Except in a bigger tub, I guess, but Baz thinks we’ll have that some day. I wonder what else he thinks we’ll have.

“Baz.”

“Hmm?”

I hook my chin over his shoulder. “I don’t know. Never mind.”

“Just say it.”

“It’s daft.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else from you.”

He gasps when I bite him.

“Do you think you’ll always want me?”

He sits up and turns his whole body around to face me. It’s a bit of an ordeal as there really isn’t enough space for movement when we’re both in here. Water splashes out onto the floor and for a moment his bony knee digs into the inside of my thigh painfully, but then he’s there. He pulls me forward until I’m nearly sat in his lap.

“I don’t think,” he says. “I know.”

“Do you think we’ll get married?”

“If you want to.”

I put my arms around the back of his neck and haul myself up so I’m fully seated on his thighs. It’s not comfortable for me, and for him it’s probably painful, but I feel the need to be as close as possible.

I have the wild thought that I want him inside me. Or to be inside him. I know I’m not ready for that, so I don’t say anything, but I also know that it’ll happen some day.

“I just want you forever,” I say, wrapping my legs around his waist. “I can’t do life without you.”

“You can,” he says softly, pressing his mouth to my collarbone. “You could. But you won’t have to.”

I duck my head down to find his mouth, and when I kiss him I feel his fangs. He never apologizes for that anymore. He doesn’t try to retract them once they’ve dropped, and I no longer feel like a freak for running my tongue along them.

I don’t ask him to bite me anymore. He knows I want it, and I have to respect that there are some lines he isn’t willing to cross. It could happen someday, I think. But I’ll be okay if it doesn’t.

And then he does it.

**Baz**

The sweet tang of buttery rich blood fills my mouth. I pull back to look at what I’ve done.

Simon’s bottom lip is shining a deep red. A single drop falls, landing on his chest. I lean in and lick it off.

I don’t think I did it on purpose, but I can’t be sure.

He reaches up and touches the spot where I pierced him, pulling his fingers away to examine the blood.

“Baz.”

I take those fingers and put them in my mouth. He watches, mesmerized.

I won’t apologize. I won’t.

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. I kiss him, then suck on his lip. The taste makes me shudder.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” I whisper.

He whispers back, “It’s okay.”

“Did it hurt?”

“A little.”

“Does it still?”

“No.” His tongue darts out to swipe some blood off his lip. I think I’m going to go mad. “It feels good now.”

“What does?”

“Like… everything.” He combs his fingers up the back of my neck and into my hair, scratching his nails against my scalp. “It feels like Fiona’s weed, but better.”

“It’s venom.” My heart sinks. “I really am poisonous.”

“It’s not poison. I feel incredible.”

I’m too weak to fight the way my mouth is pulled to his neck when he arches his head back. “I do too,” I whisper.

“It feels right. Don’t you think it feels right?”

I nod.

“Do you believe in fate, Baz?”

Do I believe in fate?

Do I believe that my life is predetermined? Do I believe that my decisions aren’t really my own, that I’m just a slave to the whims of some higher cosmic force?

“No.”

“How do you explain the Crucible?”

I don’t answer him. My whole body is thrumming. Whatever high he’s feeling, I think I’m feeling tenfold. His blood is like life itself.

“Is it really so strange?” he whispers. “Magic is real. You’re made of it.”

“It’s not fate,” I say, my lips brushing his skin as I speak. I can’t pull away. “I chose you. I can choose not to hurt you.”

“You’re not hurting me.”

“It’s not fate, Simon.” I pull back, because I can. Because it’s not fate, and I’m not an animal. I’m not a monster. I get to choose. “It’s just love.”

He kisses me, still bleeding, bleeding into my mouth, the iron coating my teeth.

This is what I am. This is the truth of my condition. The thing that gives him life makes me feel alive. I can’t feel that without him, not fully. There’s always a part that’s cold and dead, but right now, I’m only warm. My heart beats in time with his, fast, strong.

He’s not my victim. He’s the strongest person I’ve ever known. He’s not at my mercy, I’m at his. He’s not prey. He’s my partner. We’re in this together, in love and in life, in everything that the world throws at us, we succeed when we face it together.

I take his hand, open his palm, kiss the freckle at the center of it. Then I bite. My fangs cut through his skin like a hot knife through butter. He _tastes_ like butter.

I don’t suck anything from him. I pull his hand away enough to watch the blood pool in his palm, then I lean down and drink it. I won’t take more than what’s offered. I won’t take enough for him to miss.

I don’t think I could handle more. I can feel the pulsing in my veins. Everything within me is awake.

Simon Snow’s blood is like nothing else. It’s not animal blood. It’s champagne. It’s liquid gold. Every drop is precious.

**Simon**

Watching Baz drink from me is a high I’m not sure I’ll ever come down from.

It’s nothing like what he was afraid of. He’s never looked more vulnerable. And I’ve never felt such power.

His skin is warm. Hot, even. Once he’s drunk the puddle of blood in my palm, he pulls away to watch red slowly ooze from the two small puncture wounds his fangs left in my skin. He licks each drop as it rolls down, over and over until I stop bleeding. He kisses my hand and then the inside of my wrist. He kisses up my arm, across my shoulder. He kisses my neck, lingering, and I wait for a bite that doesn’t come.

He whispers a thank you against my mouth and then kisses me there too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay tuned tomorrow for the last chapter! thanks so much for reading, friends <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Simon**

Baz let me keep the puncture wounds, but only for the night. When we woke up, he spelled them away - but not before I went down on him for the first time. I bumbled my way through it, and ended up using my hand as much as my mouth. I felt like a complete numpty, but he seemed to enjoy it. He couldn’t speak for a few minutes afterwards.

I asked him if he wanted to bite me again, but he shook his head and looked at me with sparkly storm cloud eyes. “It feels special,” he’d said. “Too special to do every day.”

We’re sat at the table now, eating breakfast. I can’t stop staring at him. He looks so healthy, not a hint of the usual grey tone under his skin.

He keeps giving me these looks. Or, I guess he’s just looking. But I can tell what he’s thinking, what he’s hoping not to see. He’s trying to make sure I’m still me.

“I’m fine,” I tell him for the hundredth time.

“Right. I know.” He sips his tea all nonchalantly like I’m the paranoid one.

“I feel exactly the same.”

“Good. That’s good.”

I look down at my bowl of cereal and fish out the few squares of frosted Mini Wheats left floating in the milk. Then I drink the milk. Then I look at Baz.

He’s still staring.

“Baz,” I huff. “I’m _fine_.”

“You said that already.”

“Why aren’t you hearing it?”

“I am.” He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. It looks even shinier today than normal.

“Then why are you staring at me?”

He has the decency to finally look away, but only for a moment. His cheeks are pink like he’s embarrassed.

“What?” I demand.

“Nothing.” He goes to tuck his hair behind his ear again, only to have his hand hang awkwardly in the air because there’s no hair left that isn’t already tucked. He drops it into his lap and gives me the most sheepish look I’ve ever seen. “I’m just happy.”

“Oh.” My heart does a weird squeeze. He’s happy. He’s just happy.

“Last night was fun.” He bites the side of his lip. “This morning was fun.”

Now it’s my turn to be sheepish. “Yeah,” I mumble, staring at my empty bowl, trying not to smirk and failing. Hard. “It was.”

“I think… I think your— your blood is…” He clears his throat. “I don’t know. I just feel good.”

I beam. I can’t help it. It feels like vindication. He doesn’t regret anything. He thinks it was fun. And he’s just happy.

I nudge my knee into his leg under the table. “So do I, mate.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

**Baz**

The tree looks dreadful. It _is_ a Charlie Brown tree, and the baubles _are_ tacky, and the star on top is crooked. And I love it. Bunce tried to use magic to make it look better, but Simon and I both told her not to. It’s an ugly little thing, but it’s ours.

I've felt drunk all day. Or hungover. Or… I don’t know. I suppose I don’t have words for how I feel, since I’ve never felt this way before. It’s not what I expected. It’s not the way Lamb made it seem. I’m not thirsting for more, and I don’t feel like some all-powerful supernatural marvel. If anything, I feel more vulnerable. More… human.

My skin is almost warm. My heart is beating faster. When hunger pangs in my stomach, it’s not for blood but proper food.

Maybe something changes when the blood you’re drinking is given freely, when it’s offered like a gift by someone who isn’t being taken advantage of. Maybe I just didn’t drink enough to get the full effect.

There’s another maybe that I’m struggling not to latch onto, and that’s the idea that I’m not a vampire the same way every other vampire I’ve met has been. Maybe Malcolm and Fiona’s healing spells all those years ago had more of an effect on me than we thought. Maybe Simon has been right all along and I’m not a monster. I’m not human, but I’m not dark. I’m something in between.

Maybe.

I’ve felt drunk all day, but now I actually _am_ drunk, and it’s all Bunce’s fault. She came home from the airport with her American and three bottles of merlot. Simon had read an article titled ‘27 Ways to Make Your Christmas More Merry’ and texted her asking about mulled wine, and she indulged him in spades. Now the flat smells of spicy booze and orange, and the drink is delicious, and fuck her very much because I’ve been drinking all day and I feel cozy and content and wonderful and I don’t know what to do with all these nice feelings.

I’m even enjoying the American’s company. Genuinely. He’s actually rather lovely. I don’t think any of us gave him the credit he was due last summer, but it seems we’re making up for it now.

And then there’s Simon. Red faced from the wine, eating his weight in Chinese takeaway, laughing too loudly as he regales the American with stories designed to playfully embarrass Bunce in front of her new boyfriend. It’s not working, of course, because Bunce possesses preternatural levels of self confidence, but the American seems endeared by the anecdotes. He’s also got a thousand and one questions about the ins and outs of a school for magickal children, and Simon seems delighted for the excuse to take a mental trip back to Watford. He even talks a little about the goatherd.

Everything is rose coloured from my spot on the floor. Bunce is on the sofa behind me, and her sagey smell is strong tonight. She keeps carefully plaiting my hair down to the ends only to comb her work out with her fingers and start all over again. It’s all I can do not to lean back against her legs and fall asleep.

A bittersweet nostalgia holds me close. Truthfully, I don’t remember a great deal about my mother, but I remember her hands, the callused fingers of a fire worker, and I remember the way it felt when she used them to play with my hair.

I’m tempted to miss her. I’m tempted to ponder a life in which she hadn’t been taken from me, but this night is good. I won’t waste it on drunken melancholy. I don’t believe in fate, but the events of my life, both good and bad, have led me down a certain path. To change anything would be to risk a butterfly effect that might leave me Simon-less, and I wouldn’t trade him for anything.

“Oi! Pitch!”

I snap my head up to see why Simon is shouting at me.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he informs me.

I’m too drunk to retort with a pithy insult, so I just smile. “All good things, Snow.”

“Are you pissed, then?” He goes so northern when he drinks. And when he’s tired. And when he’s having a good time.

“Indeed.” I’m still posh, even when I’m sloshed.

“Your hair looks nice like that,” he says. “Pen, you’re good at that.”

“I know.”

The American smiles, the lights from the tree reflecting off his glasses as he looks at her. I’m realizing now that they haven’t really spoken to each other that much since he got here.

“Snow,” I say, groaning as I use Bunce’s knee for leverage to haul myself up. “I fancy a walk.”

He looks at me like I’ve gone mad. Given how vocal I’ve been about my contempt for the dropping temperatures, I can’t say I blame him. “Okay…”

I look pointedly in the direction of his best friend. He follows my eyeline and stares at Bunce for a full five seconds before the realization registers.

“Oh,” he says. “ _Oh_.” He might as well have a lightbulb over his head. “Yeah, right, yeah. Some air would be good, yeah?”

“Yes, I think so.”

I was wrong earlier. Bunce can be embarrassed after all. Or possibly just nervous; her heart is beating a mile a minute. I turn my attention to the American, and it would seem he’s got some cardiac gymnastics going on as well.

It’s sweet. They deserve some alone time.

**Simon**

It’s not that cold out tonight. I can’t see my breath, and Baz isn’t even shivering. He’s got my hat on, and his scarf. His arm is wrapped around my shoulders.

“You’re pretty,” I tell him, because it’s what I’m thinking and I’m pissed off my tits which means there’s no filter between thoughts and words. “I like your girl hair,” I say, tugging on the end of one of his plaits.

He laughs at me. “It’s not girl hair, Snow. It’s my hair and I’m not a girl, am I?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Gender is a social construct, you know that don’t you?”

“Christ. Please don’t start.” I loop my arm around his lower back. “Just take the compliment and shut up.”

He looks down at me. His eyes are still sparkly; they have been all day. “Yes, sir.”

“D’you reckon Penny and Shepard are snogging right now?”

“I’d prefer not to think about it.”

I ignore him. “I hope they are. They’re so gone for each other.”

“I don’t envy them the hardships of a long distance relationship,” he says. “We couldn’t even last two days before you came crawling through my window like a curly headed gremlin.”

My stomach goes tight. “Oh fuck. She’s going to move to America, isn’t she?”

He squeezes round my shoulders. “She didn’t for the other American, did she?”

“No, but—”

“They’ve been dating for all of five minutes, Simon. Don’t overthink yourself into a panic. Today’s been a good day, hasn’t it?”

I exhale the potential of a meltdown. “Yeah.”

“She’s your sister,” he murmurs, kissing my temple. “You’ll never lose that. I promise.”

“You’re so nice today. It’s weird.”

“I’m always nice to you.”

“Yeah, but you’re being nice to everyone. You dragged me outside in the dead of night so Penny and Shepard could have privacy. You’re never nice to Penny.”

“Perhaps it’s a Christmas miracle.”

“ _Perhaps_ ,” I mock, “you’re in a good mood because you’re finally properly nourished.”

We’re walking and I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t even know where we are. My eyeballs are a bit blurry with drink and I’ve spent half the time staring at Baz.

“I’m in a good mood,” he agrees.

“And you’re not worried about me?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not.”

I mull over that for a while. “Well maybe it _is_ a miracle, then.”

-

We’ve reached a small park, or at least a decent patch of grass by the time my legs are tired of being forced to carry me. I’m well knackered now, truly half loopy from all that wine and maybe even some remnants of Baz’s venom.

“Baz,” I say, stopping, my tone deadly serious.

“What?”

I pull away from him slightly, taking a couple steps back. “Something’s coming.”

His shoulders straighten up immediately and his face hardens. “What is it?”

“I can feel it. It’s… it’s…”

Then I tackle him to the ground. He lands hard with me on top of him. I’d probably be worried about whether or not I’ve just given him a concussion if I wasn’t laughing quite so hysterically. I’m genuinely in danger of pissing myself.

“You absolute fucking cunt,” Baz says, face stony, voice completely deadpan. It only makes me laugh harder.

He rolls on top of me, pinning me to the ground. For someone who looks so lean he sure is a heavy fuck.

“You’ve no doubt ruined my trousers.”

I laugh right into his face. I can’t help it. “You’re a magician, you twat! You can fix them!”

“Please shout that a little louder, Snow. I’m not sure the president of France heard you.”

“I thought France had a prime minister.”

“They’ve got both, you dunce.”

I reach up and grab the back of his neck roughly. “What does it say about me that I kind of get turned on when you call me stupid?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, his nose brushing up alongside mine. “I guess the same thing it says about me that I get turned on when you push me around.”

“Guess we’re just fucked.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Guess so.”

Then he kisses me.

**Baz**

The taste of him is somehow even better after he’s been drinking mulled wine all evening. I’m quickly coming to realize that kissing him is going to become a practice in restraint, a practice I certainly just failed. It’s all too easy to let my fangs sink just a little too deeply into his lip.

We’re lying on our backs now, staring up at the sky. It’s an uncharacteristically clear night. So clear, in fact, that a few stars manage to escape the usual obstruction of London’s light pollution.

Simon isn’t laughing anymore. He’s holding my hand, stroking his thumb over my knuckles. My ass hurts and I’m cold and probably covered in grass stains and dirt, but I don’t hate where I find myself now.

“Remember when I had magic?” he asks.

“I remember.”

“Remember the first time I shared it with you?”

I turn my head to look at him. “I’ll never forget it.”

“Remember the stars?” His voice is dreamy and tinged with blue. “You brought them down for us.”

“For you,” I say. “They were for you.”

He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the stars. I want to bring them down for him again.

So I slip my wand from my sleeve and point it at the sky. I close my eyes and watch back my memories like a movie: Simon and I sat on my bed, hands clasped, power flowing through us like a circuit. The taste of his smoke in my mouth. A moment of calm in the ever raging storm of Simon vs. Baz.

_**“Twinkle twinkle little star.”** _

The stars don’t come down. But they shine brighter, more and more peeking through the midnight veil of darkness. They twinkle for Snow. Like a Christmas miracle.

He turns to look at me, freckle-faced and glowing.

“You’re still magic,” I tell him. “You’ll always be magic to me.”


End file.
